


Can't Keep My Eyes Off You

by kittimau



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Family Feels, Family Issues, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mutual Pining, POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV Dean Winchester, Protective Gabriel, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Supportive Gabriel (Supernatural), Top/Bottom Versatile Castiel/Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:02:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 70,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24243973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/pseuds/kittimau
Summary: Castiel Shurley is unhappy with his current life in the city and unfulfilling, dead-end job. When his father leaves him an estate in the small town of Eden, he finds much more than a simple house. Cas stumbles headfirst into a life he never dreamed possible—and gorgeous green-eyed local, Dean Winchester.They wipe the dirt from windows, open them, and let sunlight and fresh air fill the formerly dark, musty spaces to clear away the remnants of those strangers’ pasts. Little by little, he starts to see the potential again. The home it might one day be. And little by little, he wonders if it really could be his. If he’s even worthy of it. If Dean will stay and share it with him.Because somehow, Castiel thinks it won’t feel like much of a home without Dean.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 106
Kudos: 198





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banner by yours truly 💙💚  
> Check end notes for content warnings (potential spoilers).  
> 

The moment he answers the call, Castiel knows. 

He knows with the same certainty that he knows the sky is blue, or that few things irritate like sunlight on the back of his eyelids in the morning. There are certain absolutes in the universe, and in this case, one absolute is that Michael never calls him for anything. He barely acknowledges his existence.

It’s been what, two years since he’s seen him last?

When Father first became ill, they’d gathered in that bleak hospital room around the family patriarch, stiff and silent. The twang of antiseptic and bleach and decay burning his nostrils, making him nearly as sick to his stomach as the tension riddling the air, sharp and glistening like knives. Each of the brothers likely contemplated in their own way, in that devastating moment, what it would change, though they already knew the answer.

_Everything._

Now, Castiel stands in the center of his office, staring dumbly at the name flashing across the phone in his palm, a knot tightening in his gut. Dread sits at one corner of his mind, fraying at the edges, anger seeping in, the sour tinge of bile crawling up his throat. The fingers of his free hand twitch. He flexes them unconsciously. _This can only mean one thing,_ he realizes. Still, he swipes toward the green checkmark on the screen and lifts it to his ear.

“Yes, Michael?”

“Father is dead.”

His breath catches in his throat, Michael's cold, callous monotone hitting him with the velocity of a speeding train. His brother keeps talking on the other end of the line, conveying either some demand or vague instruction, but his voice fades, becoming tinny and distant beneath the rapid, heavy _da-dum da-dum da-dum_ of his heartbeat. Castiel's arm drops and hangs limply at his side as he absentmindedly thumbs the screen, ending the call. 

_Am I spinning, or the room?_

He staggers to his desk, grips the edge and slogs his way around it to plop into the chair. It groans under his weight, that one constantly imbalanced wheel dipping it unevenly to one side and rolling it further back. He reaches up, pads of his fingers trailing across one cheek to feel the hot tears that spill unbidden, streaming down into the shadow of stubble along his clenched jaw. His fists dig into the black slacks around his knees, knuckles bleaching to the point of pain, a low growl threatening to erupt from deep within his chest. 

_You son of a bitch_ , he thinks, but he can’t tell who he’s angrier with. His father, brother, or himself. Probably the latter, if he’s honest.

Strategically, they’d prepared for this. Organized their father’s hospital care, made financial arrangements, attended to the signing of wills, so on and so forth. However, he had put little thought into _emotionally_ preparing. In fact, he had very intentionally not thought about it at all. In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the best idea. 

It's not that they were ever close. Sure, he loves— _loved—_ his father. But it was an obligatory kind of love, unconditional in the way all children must love those who've given them life, thrust them into the belly of existence kicking and screaming. If the man ever returned such affection, it's difficult to say, but by his actions alone Castiel always felt as if he were little more than a cog in his great machine. Appreciated only for his usefulness, discarded when that no longer applied. Right now, he's not certain whether that makes this better, or that much worse.

Elbows drawn to his knees, he grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes, mind cartwheeling between punching the wall and shouting. Instead, he sits in abject silence, face in his hands, until something like hollowness settles where his heart used to be. A grim calm, one that tells him he’ll need a stiff drink or an excellent lay just to _feel_ again.

Or both.

The sun filtering through the cheap horizontal plastic blinds on the window behind him wanes as the sky steadily shifts from hazy blue to hues of pink and orange. His neck and back are stiff and sore, and the pit that formed in his stomach long ago now rumbles angrily, reminding him that he’d skipped lunch. Slowly, he lifts his head, eyes meandering to the desk. 

Castiel takes in the manuscripts piled haphazardly in the middle of his desk in metal-clasped, orange envelopes. The organizer at the corner stacked with manilla envelopes filled with company memos and reports, labeled and organized. The cup full of pens next to the placard in the center bearing his name and job title. The framed picture of Claire, taken a few years prior. The computer beside his left elbow, screensaver with a small icon crawling across the screen in the same annoying, repetitive pattern. 

Beyond the desk, filing cabinets and shelves line the walls, making the compact space near claustrophobic. It’s less an office and more a closet, and the more he stares, the more he despises it. Not only the room, and the impersonal clutter within, but the menial tasks he does in it too, day after day after day. 

For years, this has been his life: wake up before dawn, brush teeth, morning run, shower, get dressed, feed Claire, eat (if he remembers), grab his suitcase. Hop on the subway, work until five (more like seven, frankly, because it seems the workload on his desk only ever increases no matter how much he gets done that day) with an hour for lunch at noon. Take the subway again, feed Claire, eat, brush teeth, then fall asleep with Netflix playing in the background. And the following morning, he rinses and repeats, except for weekends.

For. _Years._

The utter monotony of it all wears on him. Gauges deep worry lines in his face, puts bags under his eyes. It's a lonely, disheartening life.

That’s not to say he doesn’t have family or friends, people who care about him. He has his brothers (well, one of them, anyway). He has Claire. He has Balthazar, Rowena, and Hannah.

But there are many layers to loneliness, some of which cut so deep only one thing can heal the wound. This loneliness is cold with no glimmer of hope for heat. Like sitting in a dark room, crying for a light that never appears. The sort of heartwrenching lonely that eats at you slowly, an ache so constant, so sure, you eventually believe it’s always been there and there’s no other way _to_ feel.

Loneliness, to Castiel, is a prison. 

It isn’t like Castiel doesn’t try. He’s been on his share of dates, even let his friends set him up a few times. He spends occasional nights at the bar, goes to weekend lunches and movies with friends, takes a Sunday yoga class, and goes jogging daily at the park near his apartment. But work leaves little time for much else.

He’s not “emotionally unavailable”, as past flings have suggested. He’s just busy.

Yes, busy.

His phone abruptly shudders toward the corner of his desk, an obnoxious disco song reverberating off the stark white office walls. The unique ringtone Gabriel had set for his contact ID just to bug him, but Castiel never bothered or cared enough to change. Just as the phone slips from the wood surface and careens to the beige carpet beneath his feet, his hand shoots out and catches it mid-air.

“What do you want?”

“Aw, what crawled up your ass? Or is the problem that nothing's been up there for too long?" Gabriel snorts at his own joke. Castiel doesn't bother confirming or denying just how accurate that assumption is, he won't give his brother the satisfaction. "Come on, Cassie-poo, is that any way to greet your favorite brother? Where’s the love! ‘How are you, Gabe? I miss you! When are you coming to town?’”

He groans and runs his fingers through his hair, shoving the perpetually messy locks back from his forehead. “Gabriel, now is really not the time, I—”

“Just found out about _dear old Dad_ ,” he says derisively, “yeah, I know. Mikey said ya hung up before he could tell you the rest, though.”

Somehow, Gabriel repeating Michael's admission makes it more _real_. Castiel spins in the chair, stands, and stares through the blinds out at the cityscape below his fourteenth-floor view. His heart thuds wildly again in his chest, uncomfortable and abrasive as it hammers against bone. As he moves, the cool air from the overhead fan wisps across the damp sweat clinging to his brow, and for the first time, he notices the crisp white button-down matting itself to the skin of his back.

A long moment passes. He gulps a weak, unsteady lungful of air and finally speaks, voice raspy in his throat from thirst and disuse. “I—what? Oh… yes, I guess I did. Sorry.”

“Pshh, I don’t care. He probably deserved it. But this might brighten your day a little!”

“Brighten my day? This isn’t funny, Gabe. What could possibly—”

“Dad left us money, bro! I mean, I was a little surprised, not gonna lie. Thought for sure Mikey would have gotten him to cut us out of the will by now, with him laid up and… you know. But that’s not all. We got a property, with a ton of acreage. You and me.”

“What are you talking about?”

When Gabriel replies, it’s with a slow drawl, enunciating each word clearly and carefully as though speaking to a child. “Dad left us an estate.”

“ _Okay,_ where?” Castiel shakes his head and leans his hip against the desk. “And what exactly am I supposed to do with this information?”

“It’s in… ugh… _South Dakota_. Dad’s hometown, some podunk little place called Eden.”

“Eden? Why didn’t he ever mention it before?”

“Man, you know how Dad was with his secrets. Anyway, I’ll be flying in for the funeral, but then I have to come back to finish filming for another month. I checked it out online, though, and it’s right up your alley! You love... uh, nature,” Gabriel says, the last sentence dripping with dismay at the very idea of enjoying anything not involving scantily clad models and lush beach chalets.

“I have work, though. I can’t drop everything to go to South Dakota.” Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose and screws his eyes shut, the telltale ache of a migraine beginning to throb behind them. “What am I even supposed to do there?”

His brother scoffs. “Work, yeah. At the job you hate. They gotta give you some time off, it’s Dad’s company! Just take a few days, check the place out. If it looks okay, maybe we sell it. Or fix it up and keep it. Pass it down to your future kids, I don’t know. Honestly, Cassie, it’s yours, I don’t want or need it and anything has to be better than that shithole you call an apartment.”

Castiel grumbles, “It’s not a ‘shithole',” but even he has to admit... _it is._

“You keep telling yourself that.” Castiel can picture his brother’s familiar smirk and eye roll just by the tone of his voice. “Come on, think of this like a-a mini-vacation! You need it, baby brother.” Gabriel sighs. “We all do.” 

It’s an uncommonly resigned sound, coming from him. His older brother will never admit it, but Castiel knows him better than anyone. The snarky facade is just that; a mask, one he’d donned when they were kids, and rarely let slip. Beneath all the sass and hedonism, Gabriel _cares,_ cares about family more than anything. And he’d stood by Castiel in the worst of times when he had no one else. Protected him, in his way.

A sob rises from his throat as he thinks, _I wish he were here with me right now._ He chokes it back, but barely.

Even now, with his own troubles and pain, Gabe thinks of him. Reaches out, tries to ease his burden, shows him he isn’t _alone_. A swell of love and gratitude floods through him and suddenly he wants nothing more than to hold his brother, to be held. To let loose the tears, have a drink with the man and reminisce about old times, as they are wont to do each time they reunite. Moments that seem more rare and fleeting as the years fly past.

“I…” Castiel exhales slowly, shoulders slumping more with relief than defeat. Gabriel is right. He doesn't think he’ll feel up to working this week anyway if today’s utter lack of productivity is anything to go by. What he wants right now is a stiff drink, to curl up with Claire, and turn his brain (and his feelings) off for a few hours. “Alright. Let me make a few calls. And Gabriel?”

“Yeah, Cassie?”

“Thank you for calling me. I _do_ miss you.”

“I miss you too. I'll hit you up when I get into town, okay?”

Castiel ends the call and scrolls through his contacts, pacing the few feet from his desk to the door and back as he makes the arrangements for bereavement. He gets a total of five days and tacks on another two weeks of vacation time he has saved since he’d used none of his vacation or sick days for the year. He doesn’t leave work until eight that evening, hungry, exhausted, and emotionally drained.

The moment he steps out into the street, a giant raindrop splatters directly onto the center of his forehead. Within seconds, it’s pouring. 

Four hours later, Castiel trudges up the stairwell to his apartment on legs of lead, the disgusting squelch of wet leather following him with every step.

The elevator had broken three months prior, and the landlord still hadn’t seen fit to fix it. Nor had he fixed the leak in Castiel’s bathroom sink, or the off-kilter dishwasher that threatens to pop from its fixtures when he pulls the upper rack all the way out. 

A fresh wave of exhaustion hits as he reaches the last set of stairs, so he pauses and leans against the wall, taking a heavy breath. It isn’t the tired one feels at the end of a hard day’s work, or after a long bout of exercise, but a weariness that settles into one’s bones and leaves a profound, empty ache within the heart, a hollow in the stomach no amount of food or drink can fill.

Not that he hasn’t tried. 

_Maybe I shouldn’t have had that last glass,_ he muses with a soft huff of laughter. _Or four..._

Rubbing his sore, heavy eyes, he turns the corner into the long, dim hallway beneath a solitary fluorescent bulb. It casts an eerie glow over the faded ivy paint, sputtering and flickering as though just to spite him. Castiel stumbles forward, briefcase bumping against his thigh, and digs into the pocket of his damp trench coat for the keys.

Then proceeds to drop them.

_Twice_.

It takes three tries to get the right key into the lock before his door finally creaks open. Castiel flips on the floor lamp beside the entry, tosses his briefcase and keys onto the two-person dining table of his meager kitchen, and toes off his shoes. Immediately, a familiar loud purring reaches his ears. Claire, his little blonde tabby, rubs affectionately against his calves, winding a figure-eight through his parted legs. 

“Hey, baby girl,” he murmurs fondly, stooping to scoop her into his arms. She sniffs at his lips and squirms away, scowling as much as he supposes a cat can at his whiskey-sour breath. “Sorry. It’s been”—he hiccups—“a long day.”

Castiel gently sets her down, and she trots to her bowl with an eager mewl. After pouring her some food (and spilling kibble all over the floor in the process), he wanders into the bathroom. He loosens his tie and sighs, hands falling to grip the sink’s edge.

 _Plink… plink… plink_

He stares as the faucet drips onto the porcelain below, and doesn't that just feel like the icing on today’s cake of misery. After a long moment, his gaze drifts to the mirror. The permanent circles beneath his eyes give him a gaunt, near skeletal appearance, they’re so dark, and the eyes themselves are glazed and bloodshot. The thick stubble around his mouth is rough against his palm as he scrubs one hand over his face and turns to make his way to the living room, legs ready to give out beneath him.

With a weary grunt, he flops down on the couch and promptly passes out, still wearing his coat.

* * *

Castiel has to admit, the moment he leaves the city lights and tall, cold buildings behind, a weight lifts from his shoulders.

It has been less than twenty-four hours since his father’s funeral, and he now finds himself in the back of a cab traveling through the seemingly endless countryside, past fields of corn and wheat, forests full of elm, spruce, and pine. Just clear blue sky and fresh air for miles and miles around. It's so serene, he begins to think that perhaps a vacation will be good for him, after all.

Nearly two hours outside of Sioux Falls, they pass through Eden. It looks like something out of a magazine, pure Midwestern Americana; one wide main street with several smaller intersecting streets, but no streetlights, only stop signs indicating right-of-way. Beautiful brick and mortar buildings, probably built around the start of the twentieth century, if not earlier, with hand-painted signs hanging out front. A single general store, gas station, hardware store, diner, bakery, bar, church, and various other small businesses. Most of the family homes are situated along the outskirts, as close to suburbs as a town this small could attempt, or scattered into the farmland beyond.

Claire sits curled in his lap, purring contentedly. He’d considered leaving her with Hannah but wasn’t sure how long he’d be away. She wasn’t too happy about flying or being stuck in a crate for part of the trip, but he feels better having her with him. He drags a palm down her silken fur as the cab leaves the pavement and pulls down a winding dirt road that leads to a large, colonial farmhouse. Scratching behind her ears, he peers through the windshield as the driver parks.

It’s beautiful but obviously neglected if the high, unruly grass overrun by weeds is anything to go by. Two stories with shiplap that might have once been white, a broad porch that wraps around the entire front of the house, and long, thick columns. Two separate buildings sit on the property further out; a barn, and another that looks like an enormous garage with corrugated metal double doors.

Castiel leans toward the cabbie. “Could you stay here a moment while I check it out?”

“You betcha. I’ll keep the meter runnin’.”

“Thank you.” Castiel lifts Claire off his lap and sets her in the seat beside him. She meows, annoyed by the disturbance, but quickly resettles and falls back to sleep. “I'll return shortly.”

Castiel exits the car and jogs to the porch, treads gingerly up each step, testing his weight. They hold; it seems the wood is still in good condition, but the windows are dirty and difficult to see through, and the hinges on the front door are rusty and stiff. It takes a few shoves to get it to open.

The door opens into an 18-foot-tall foyer with two rooms on either side. A dining room and office, based on what furniture remains, all covered in semi-opaque plastic sheets, and stairs by the office lead to the second floor, open to the foyer below. It’s dark inside, but enough light filters in through the many windows to reveal a thick layer of dirt and dust covering every surface and cobwebs hanging from the ceiling.

Castiel flicks the nearby light switch without luck before wandering past the stairs into the central living space with an open kitchen to his left. Straight ahead, speckled grains of dust float across the light streaming through French doors leading to a large wooden deck and separate covered porch. The right-hand corner of the living room bears an enormous stone fireplace, and beside it, the master suite. His father likely left the house before he was born, yet someone had to have tended to it in the meantime, or else it would be in far worse condition.

It’s incredibly discomfiting, walking through someone else’s home, someone else’s life, and his heart thrums, chest feeling tighter with each step. Charles Shurley had been a secretive man, never particularly warm or benevolent toward him or his siblings. Castiel did everything he could to understand the man, to win his approval, had even gone to work for his company a bit after graduating from university. But he was a tough person to know, reclusive, and mercurial.

The further into the house Castiel wanders, the more he thinks about his father's life here and how it made him the man he was, the more unsettled he feels. Backing out, he turns and tiptoes up the stairs, which creak and groan mildly under his weight. He grips the banister but quickly withdraws his hand, almost black with dust. Grimacing, he wipes it on his coat and continues his search.

On the second floor, he finds a large open sitting room with more plastic-covered furniture and three windows overlooking the back of the property. Curious, he glances through them and sucks in a breath. The remains of a beautiful garden lie below, on the other side of the deck. He can almost picture himself back there, tending to flowers, watching the bees and hummingbirds flitting about. Drinking coffee during peaceful spring mornings or lounging on the deck in the evenings with a glass of bourbon. And upstairs where he stands, with the glorious view and so much natural light, he sees himself doing yoga, or reading, during the winter.

There are two bedrooms with a bathroom between them to the left of the sitting area, and to the right, a third bedroom, second bathroom, and enormous storage closet stacked high with boxes and crates full of what look like antiques, books, and old clothing. It's no mansion, to be sure, but a vast improvement on his tiny one-bedroom studio apartment in the city. _A good place to raise a family_ , he thinks, but then the thought weighs even heavier upon his shoulders. How empty would it feel, how lonely, just him and Claire and all these vacant rooms? 

As he navigates his way back outside, he considers his options. Castiel has never renovated a house before (hell, he's never so much as put together a bookshelf), and he hasn’t even looked at the surrounding land or other buildings yet. Between the sums left to him and Gabriel, maybe they can pull it off if they find someone to take on the project. Or, as his brother suggested, they can sell it. Despite his reservations, having seen it, the latter rings slightly hollow, and disappointment seeps through him down to the marrow.

For now, he must find somewhere to stay, at least until he can get the utilities turned on. Castiel pulls out his phone and searches for the nearest hotel, which as it turns out, is “Eden Lodge”, a quaint six-room place just off the main street they’d passed earlier. 

By the time he approaches the cab, Claire is awake, yowling, and angry. He sheepishly ducks into the backseat and attempts to soothe her. “My apologies,” he tells the driver. ”I need to get to the Eden Lodge back in town.”

“Sure thing, buddy.” The older man chortles amiably, then hooks a thumb in Claire's direction. “Glad you’re back, think this one here was about ready to claw my eyes out.”

Fifteen minutes later, he drops Castiel off outside of the motel, where he pays the fare and lugs his suitcase, duffel bag, and Claire’s crate from the trunk. It takes some coaxing to get her inside, and she scratches his right hand, screeching like a banshee the entire time. Once the cabbie finally pulls away, he has the cat and his belongings piled on the curb outside the motel lobby. 

Still nursing his injury, he drags his bags into the building to check in. The place looks like it hasn't been redecorated since at least the 70s, with unpainted wood paneling on the walls, mid-century furnishings, and shag carpet. The front desk is eerily empty, but rock music pours from a radio beside the register. 

“Uh… hello?” He rings the bell on the counter. From the room on the other side, he hears a loud crash followed quickly by a pained, muffled grunt.

Startled, Castiel backs toward the front, half expecting some vandal to burst into the room, mask and all, to shake him down. His heart races, nostrils flaring as he reaches one long arm out toward Claire’s crate, ready to make a beeline for the exit.

Instead, the door behind the desk flies open with a _bang,_ and out pops a short, scrawny man wearing a leather vest, no shirt underneath, and ripped jeans. The man runs his fingers through his hair, drawing Castiel’s attention to his long, light brown mullet. An honest to God _mullet_. 

“Yo! What’s up, my man!” he slurs, sounding stoned. Or drunk. Possibly both, judging by his heavy-lidded red eyes and mile-long stare.

“Hello.” Castiel coughs awkwardly into his fist and steps forward. “I need a room.”

“Cool, yeah, I got you. You new in town?" The man squints, eyes scrutinizing but glassy and unfocused. "Never seen you around.”

“Yes.” Castiel resists the urge to roll his eyes and fishes out his wallet. He wants to get to his room and put some food in his stomach before he passes out, not waste time on small talk with this strange little man. He hasn’t eaten since arriving at the airport that morning and still needs to stop at the store for a box and some litter for Claire. “How much?”

“Fifty a night, man. You got ID?”

Castiel hands him his credit card and driver’s license, requesting to stay the week. The man slides over the sign-in sheet with a cheap blue Bic pen. Hunched over the counter, Castiel avoids his prying gaze, uncaps the pen, and begins filling out the short form.

“Woah…” He glances up. Mullet-guy is busy scanning Castiel’s identification, eyebrows reaching for his hairline. “Shurley?”

“Yes.”

“That’s wild, man. Used to be a Shurley here. You related?”

Wringing his hands out of view, Castiel swallows thickly and nods. “Did you know them?”

“Nah, not really. Before my time. Here ya go, dude, room three.”

“Thank you.” Castiel hastily snatches his cards and room key before the man can ask any more questions. He backs away from the desk, slings the duffel bag over his shoulder, and picks up Claire and his suitcase. With hands full, he has to nudge the door open with his ass and awkwardly squeeze through while the man watches, scratching his head. 

The door is already closing when he finally hollers, “Lemme know if you need anything!”

Room three has much the same decor as the lobby, but it's clean and almost cozy. Not like he's accustomed to living in the lap of luxury, either way. Castiel lets Claire out of her crate and gives her some food and water, then sits on the bed with an exhausted sigh and pulls out his phone. It’s only six in the evening, but jet-lagged and irritated as he is, he already wants to lie down for the night. One missed call from Gabriel, he notes. No energy for that. 

Castiel strokes Claire’s back and informs her he’ll be back soon. “Don’t poop on anything,” he pleads. She glares at him as though offended by the mere suggestion and he chuckles fondly on his way out the door. 

The diner sits on the corner of an intersection a few buildings down from Eden Lodge with more pickup trucks parked out front and around the side than he’s ever seen in one place. He crosses the street and pauses, admiring the one car that stands out among the rest. A sleek black classic Chevrolet, shining like a beacon under the streetlamp at the corner of the sidewalk. He hums appreciatively as he strides past, giving it one last glance over his shoulder. Castiel doesn’t even own a vehicle, but he can appreciate a thing of beauty when he sees it, and her owner clearly takes great pains to care for her.

The sign above the restaurant's door depicts a provocative pin-up style waitress holding a tray with “Tina’s” across the middle. He peers through the windows, lips twitching at the edges when he realizes nearly everything in this town is dated. He likes it, its contrast to the urban environment he's accustomed to.

Tina's is nothing at all like the bland, mass-produced corporate chains one sees all across the country, clones upon clones littering every other street corner. There's character in these walls, in the black-and-white checkered floors, red booths lining one wall, round Formica tables down the middle, and long stainless steel counter and vinyl-topped barstools. Maybe a common sight once upon a time, but decades later it fills him with a warm combination of foreign and familiar, much like he felt watching vintage films on Turner Classic Movies with Gabriel as children. A sense of better, more innocent times, though he is at least self-aware enough to recognize the idealistic naivete of that sentiment.

Quickly noting that all the tables are full, with only two seats at the counter remaining empty, Castiel fidgets, rocking from foot to foot. He isn’t too keen on crowds on the best of days, though in the city he’s learned to suffer through it. Something about knowing everyone's a stranger to everyone else somehow makes it easier—being the _only_ stranger in a town like this is another thing entirely.

An embarrassing gurgle from the region above his belt prompts him forward. Resigned, he pushes the door open. Then a little bell above it signals his entry and _every single face_ in the diner turns to stare. 

_Fuck,_ he groans internally.

The jukebox in the corner plays a familiar, upbeat 60s tune beneath the din of whispering patrons, almost mockingly out of touch with Castiel’s current mood. His stomach churns, anxious and demanding as the combined scents of hot, greasy burgers, flaky warm pastry crust, and cold milkshakes fill his nostrils. Cheeks aflame, he lets the door fall shut behind him, praying they’ll let him take his food to go. 

Gaze downcast, he shoves his hands in his coat pockets and takes a nervous step forward, a dozen eyes burning into his skin. The sensation brings him back to age thirteen; they’d moved cities after his father purchased a publishing firm there and enrolled the boys in a prominent private boarding school. He recalls the tension boiling in his stomach, the sweat on his palms as he’d crammed them into his pockets much like now and, staring at his feet, entered the building full of unknown faces for the first time. His home for the five years that followed...

Distracted by the uncomfortable memory, he doesn’t notice when his foot catches on the leg of someone’s chair. It's an out-of-body experience, watching himself stumble in slow motion, brain lagging several seconds behind as his upper half pitches forward. With a desperate cry, he squeezes his eyes shut and plummets to the floor, arms flailing out to catch himself and the noise around him is lost to the rush of blood in his ears when instead, he smacks face-first into what feels like a brick wall. A strangely warm and not at all painful fabric-covered brick wall. Then something crashes to the floor at his feet, a sharp sound too heavy for glass. It shatters, abrupt like a punch to the gut, splattering something sticky and warm all over his pants and shoes. His breath sticks in his throat, shuttered and hesitant.

A distant sound echoes across the hushed diner as the jukebox shifts tracks. _Click, whir, click._ And that’s when, to his absolute horror, it hits Castiel. This is no wall. It’s a _chest_ —a very well-defined chest—pressing tightly against his cheek, its alluring, distinctly masculine aroma stirring an entirely inappropriate response down south. Within seconds of that revelation, Frankie Valli’s soft crooning drifts through the air. 

_You'd be like Heaven to touch_

Thick, strong arms wrap around his back. One hand moves, a slow stroke between his shoulder blades, firm but soothing. His face warms and heart _pounds_. The fine hairs of his arms bristle under his sleeves.

_I wanna hold you so much_

The flush of heat spreads from the tips of his ears down to his collar. With a humiliated lump in his throat, he sluggishly raises his head to meet the most brilliant eyes he’s ever seen. Beautiful, bright green, surrounded by long, full lashes. They crinkle at the corners, sparkling with amusement. And now he can't make up his mind whether this is a nightmare, like the ones he had of showing up to class naked as a kid, or the beginnings of a pornographic _dream_.

Then the rich, honey-thick baritone attached to that lovely face murmurs, “You owe me a pie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:    
>  Brief mention of illness/death (Cas' father).   
>  Implied/referenced depression   
>  Alcohol as a coping mechanism (briefly)   
> 
> 
> Disclaimer:  
>  The Eden, SD in this fic is entirely fictional. Any likeness to real locations is completely coincidental.   
> 
> 
> Many thanks to my friends [lostinfantasies38](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostinfantasies38/pseuds/Lostinfantasies38/works) and [Sharky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharkapologists/pseuds/Sharkapologists) for all their support and encouragement, and to [kellydean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellydean/pseuds/kellydean/works) & [Duvainthel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duvainthel/pseuds/Duvainthel) from the [ProfoundBond Discord](https://discord.gg/profoundbond) for beta'ing this chapter.
> 
>  **Bonus!**  
>  I sketched the layout for the house. Maybe one of these days I'll redo it all fancy but for now you get to bask in my crappy handwriting.  
> 
> 
> Thoughts? Let me know in the comments!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check end notes for content warnings.

Dean doesn’t even _like_ this song, this sappy oldies crap. He's a rock ‘n’ roll man; to him, anything lacking an electric guitar is practically sacrilegious, and even then, he’s picky. No hair bands, and definitely nothing produced after 1979. (Okay, maybe with a few exceptions. Don't judge.)

But _Jesus_ , the minute those baby blues turn on him it’s like the dude from the juke is talking right to him.

_Pardon the way that I stare_

_There's nothin' else to compare_

_The sight of you leaves me weak..._

He's definitely staring. His knees are friggin' jello. And of course, smooth talker that Dean Winchester is, he looks right down at the scruffy, wide-eyed, flushed and beautiful walking disaster in his arms and says, “You owe me a pie.” 

The instant he says it, he grimaces, chiding himself. _Really, Dean? What the fuck?_

By sheer willpower, he forces his mouth into the most charming damn smirk he can manage. The guy’s legs are still slightly bent and his fingers are digging uncomfortably into Dean’s hips, giving him the impression if he lets go he’ll sag to the floor.

So he holds on, and those blue gems just stare right back, pupils all big. Dude looks dazed, probably embarrassed. There’s a hint of something else in his gaze, too, but Dean’s too distracted to go analyzing it, busy counting each glistening fleck and all the variations of shades.

It’s so tempting to spout the, “did it hurt when you fell from Heaven,” line, considering the circumstances, that his _skin_ itches. He tamps down the urge. _One cheesy pickup line per day, man. Pace yourself._

After a minute that stretches on for an eternity, the gorgeous stranger’s hooded eyes slide from Dean’s down to his lips, and he licks his own, real slow.

Then someone coughs.

Blue-Eyes immediately pulls away from him (to Dean's mixed disappointment and relief) and straightens up, smoothing long, tan fingers down his front. He has dark brown hair, all mussed like he just rolled out of bed and Dean can’t help thinking it’s sexy as hell. Nearly as tall as Dean, broad-shouldered, and about the same age, if not a little older. Can’t tell much else, covered as he is, but he looks fit—not that he’s ogling the guy or anything.

He's straddling the line between Dick Tracy and overworked tax accountant; cheap black suit, white shirt, backward blue tie, and rumpled beige trench coat. _Really. 'Cause who wears a trench coat anymore?_ Stick him in a dark alley with a badge in his pocket, cigarette hangin' from his lips beneath the brim of a deerstalker though? Yeah, he could pull off the former no problem. Suits him, somehow.

The stranger exhales, low and loud, staring down at his pie-spattered black leather boots with a furrowed brow and his shoulders slump as though that’s the cherry on top of a giant shit sundae. When he at last peers up through his thick, dark eyelashes, damn, he has the saddest, most soulful look Dean has ever seen on anything besides a puppy. Could even give Sam a run for his money.

“You okay, man?” 

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry about your pie. And”—he gestures vaguely in Dean’s direction—“your shoes.”

_Holy. Shit. That. Voice._

That voice _does things_ to him. Things that are totally not okay to be feeling out in public in a crowded diner during the dinner rush (which, even in a place like Eden is one person too many). And they’re still close, he realizes, enough so he can detect the guy’s scent lingering in the scant space between them.

There’s a sharp note of ozone, like right before a thunderstorm, but above it a layer of sweetness. It reminds him of honeysuckle in the spring, of earth and rain, and yet again, “angel” passes through his head involuntarily. 

Clearing his throat, Dean steps back and looks down at the shoes in question. Sure enough, he finds a dozen little globs of apple filling clinging to his scuffed steel-toes and the hem of his worn, faded jeans.

Shrugging, he looks up and winks. “No big deal. I’ve been dirtier.”

The dude’s eyes go blank, gazing right through him as if he’s parsing every syllable, trying to form them into something coherent. Dean can almost fool himself into thinking his blush darkens, that maybe he’s imagining all the possibilities in that statement. But within seconds, he meets Dean’s eyes again, expression neutral, and dashes that tiny spark of hope to nothing.

“Still, I do owe you. Please, let me buy you another.” 

Dean chuckles. “Won’t argue with that.”

He rubs the nape of his neck right as Krissy brushes past him with a broom. Backing up another step to give her space, he glances around the diner and doesn’t miss the stares he gets in return. Jo’s smirking from her center table, eyes all lit up. Even Benny’s got a big dumb grin, with Garth beside him in the corner booth looking back and forth, smiling awkwardly like he’s missing out on the joke but desperate to play along.

To make matters worse, Meg’s got her elbows on the countertop and is obviously checking the new guy out, head to toe, biting her lip. Dean glares at her before turning back to him and jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

“Wanna join me?”

Blue-Eyes pauses, head tilting to the side as he looks at Dean, thoughtful and curious, and damn if it’s not the most adorable thing Dean’s ever seen.

“Okay. Yes, I would like that.”

Dean grins, broad and bright, even as he ignores the stupid little somersault his stomach does upon hearing that deep, gravelly voice again. “Awesome,” he says, waving toward the open seats.

Meg slides down the counter in front of them when they take their places on the stools, because _of course she does_ , and the rest of the patrons gradually return to normal volume as conversations resume. Meg hands them both clean rags, eyes still glued to Dean’s companion. She flashes a sultry smirk.

“Quite a mess you made there, hot stuff.” 

“My apologies,” the guy says, bowing his head. “I was not paying attention.”

Dean scowls at Meg before offering him a reassuring smile. “Don’t sweat it, man. Shit happens, _right Meg_?”

“Of course,” she croons, watching as they bend in opposite directions to wipe themselves off. “Nothing wrong with getting a little _dirty_. You’d know better than anyone, wouldn’t you, Dean?”

“Shut up,” he mutters under his breath, half-heartedly wishing looks could actually kill.

It's one thing for him to self-deprecate, and quite another for someone else to mock his reputation. Blue-Eyes glances between them, confused, but his lips twitch like he’s holding back a smile and suddenly Dean _really_ wants to know what it’ll take to get a proper one out of him, even if he has to play the fool to see it.

Meg just laughs, sweeping her loosely curled brown hair over one shoulder. “And what’s your name, handsome? Not often we get visitors in these parts.”

“My name is Castiel.” He holds his hand out over the silver counter and her pale fingers snake over his palm like she can turn a simple handshake into a sexual act. “Pleased to meet you, Meg. _"_

Still holding Castiel's hand, she leans toward him. With her short stature, it pushes her tits up on the counter, ample cleavage out there for the whole friggin’ world to see. “Mmm, I’m sure you are,” she purrs. “So, what can I do ya for, _Castiel_?” 

Dean sputters indignantly but rushes to choke down the sound when they both give him a weird look. Castiel’s gaze flicks back to her, his smile polite and close-lipped. He withdraws his hand and points at Dean.

“I believe I owe him a pie.”

“And for you?”

“Are the burgers here any good?”

“Any good?” Her hand flutters over her heart, feigning offense. “Best damn burgers in the state.”

“Ha! Not as good as mine,” Dean quips.

Meg’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t argue, and Dean knows it’s 'cause she’s had them before (and he makes downright fantastic burgers). Regardless of their banter, they’ve known each other since high school, and all the teasing is more of an inside joke by now than any real bad blood between them.

Her eyes dart between him and Castiel a couple of times, putting the pieces together before a devilish grin spreads across her round face. The competition is on, and now they both know it.

“I will have that, then. Thank you.” Castiel looks her over appreciatively and gives her a smirk that makes Dean’s heart sink into his stomach a little. 

He taps his knuckles on the counter to get her attention and holds up two fingers. “And uh, two beers, Meg. On me.”

She shoots him a knowing look, which he pointedly ignores because now he’s thinking, _shit, what if the guy doesn’t even like beer? Will he think I’m being too presumptuous? What if he doesn’t even drink? Damn it, why don’t I ever think before I talk?_

“That okay with you?” he says, looking at Castiel. “Beer? I mean, uh, I can order you something else, but anything stronger you gotta get over at—”

“Yes, I like beer.” Castiel nods politely then glances at Meg. “Do not let him pay for anything. And please add his previous order to my tab,” he says solemnly.

Dean twists in his seat to face him. “You don’t have to do that.”

Castiel cocks his head, like before. “But I want to, Dean.”

A shiver runs down Dean’s spine, goosebumps following in its wake. His name, from those lips, in that voice. He shouldn’t like it as much as he does. What is it about this guy that's got him so worked up?

“Well then...” He claps his hands, rubbing them together excitedly. “Meg, you heard the man. Burger, beers, and pie!” 

“Comin’ right up,” Meg says with way the hell too much innuendo in her tone. She sashays over to the cooler and quickly returns with two beers, pops the caps off, and sets them down before putting in the rest of their order. Dean doesn’t miss the way Castiel’s eyes follow her curiously, even if they don’t linger.

He grabs his beer and takes a long swig, eager to reclaim the guy’s attention but needing the buzz to calm his nerves. “So uh, you staying somewhere in town?”

“Yes. At the Eden Lodge.” 

“So you must have met Ash.”

“Ash?”

“You know, business in the front, party in the back?” Dean says, gesturing around his head.

“Ah, I did indeed. Is he always like that?”

“Always like what?”

“Intoxicated.”

Dean nearly spits his drink across the counter as he erupts with laughter. “Pretty much. Glad he didn’t scare you off. He’s weird, but a good guy, and smarter than he looks. Basically a genius, if you can believe it. Even went to M.I.T.”

Castiel shakes his head, a tiny, surprised smile playing at his lips. “It seems this town is full of strange, albeit interesting, people.” He peers at Dean. That smile tugs a fraction wider, an unspoken insinuation in his eyes.

“Me?” Dean smirks. _Hell yeah, now we’re getting somewhere._ “I think I’m adorable.”

It’s so brief, he almost doesn’t catch it, but Castiel lifts his beer to his lips at the same time his eyes float down Dean’s body. His heart speeds up, leg bouncing on the lower rail of the stool. On a whim, Dean thrusts out his hand. Meg robbed him of a proper introduction, so he’s gonna do it right, while she’s out of the way. 

“Dean Winchester, resident pie connoisseur, at your service.”

Cas stares down at his hand for a minute, mouth still quirked up on one side, then grips it firmly. “Castiel Shurley. At _your_ service.”

And holy shit, it’s like a lightning bolt runs straight through his fingers into Dean’s. His hand is warm, smooth, and far softer than Dean’s calloused one, made so by a lifetime of manual labor. But it’s large and strong, too, and still rougher than a woman’s.

He remembers the way those long fingers groped at his hips, just below the belt, like it was all he could do to keep standing. Dean wonders what they’d feel like under the clothes, on his skin, running down his back or up his thighs. He swallows hard, trying to chase the thoughts away.

“Shurley?” he mumbles, more to himself than to Cas. The name sounds mildly familiar, but through the fog of the evening’s events, he can’t seem to place why.

Castiel’s lips part with a reply just as a throat clears beside them. Meg’s standing there, sliding two plates across the counter. Dean realizes he’s still holding Cas’ hand, and by the peculiar expressions on both his and Meg’s faces, has been doing so for way longer than is appropriate.

He jerks his hand away, cheeks burning hot. Suddenly he really wants a stiffer drink, but all the diner has is beer and that ain’t near enough to settle these kinda nerves. 

Dean makes a plan in his head. He’ll wolf down the pie, guzzle the beer, and run to the Roadhouse across the street where Ellen will fix him up good. Then he’ll go home, jerk off, and that’ll be the end of that. Probably won’t ever see Castiel Shurley again, cause for all he knows, the dude’s just passing through. Yeah. A solid plan, if a disappointing one.

Glancing over from the side of his eye, he catches Cas taking another drink. He totally does _not_ watch the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows with a small, satisfied smile. He also does not lick his own lips, wondering what the skin of Cas’ throat would feel like against them. Then Cas picks up his burger, eyeing the thing like he hasn’t eaten in a year, and takes a bite. 

And he _moans_. 

Muffled though it is around the mouthful which has his cheeks puffed like a squirrel packing it in for winter, it’s a low and sensual sound that goes straight from Castiel’s lips to Dean’s dick and has him struggling to pick his jaw up off the goddamn floor.

He squirms in his seat, adjusting himself as subtly as he can in a room full of people. People he knows, no less, which just makes him feel even grosser for the images crossing his mind right now. Cas with tie loose and shirt rumpled, trench coat spread open, hair a delicious mess from Dean’s teasing fingers. Skin flushed, lips parted, moaning like that but around something else entirely.

This ain’t Dean’s first rodeo, he knows he’s attracted to Cas. Like, ridiculously fucking attracted. Maybe it’s the hot five-o'clock shadow on his sharp, square jaw. Maybe it’s the sex hair. Maybe it’s the crystalline blue of his eyes, so piercing in their intensity it’s like he can see into Dean’s soul (he's already waxing poetic about the guy, for cryin' out loud). Whatever the cause, he’s definitely filing that moan, and the attached imagery, away for later.

“Well golly, Dean, you’re looking a little red.”

“What?”

His eyes go wide as the sultry female voice penetrates his brain. Cas is staring at him. He’s staring at Cas, probably has been for a while. Again. And Meg’s standing there, arms crossed, staring at both of them. His face feels like an inferno.

“Dean?” Cas says. He nudges Dean’s thigh with his knee below the counter, which does not help the situation one bit. “You okay?” 

He nods emphatically. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Looking away, he shovels pie in his mouth. Focuses on the flavors of apple, cinnamon, and flaky, buttery crust as it explodes on his tongue because pie makes everything better. Until Meg opens her mouth again, that is.

“Maybe you’ve got a fever,” she suggests. “Unless something else has you so _hot_ and _bothered_.”

Dean glowers at her over his pie, swallows hard, and mouths, “bite me”. She mouths in return, “anytime, baby”. Fed up, he takes a swig of the beer and says, maybe a little too forcefully, “Don’t you have a job to do? One that doesn’t include bugging your customers?”

Things get quiet and tense for a long minute. Cas’ fingers twitch around the bottle as his eyes flit between them above his nearly empty plate. “I’m... sensing awkwardness.”

Turning to Castiel, Meg shrugs and says, “Me and Dean here, we go way back. We just like to tease each other.” He nods, takes a sip of his beer, and she smiles. This time it’s kind rather than suggestive, which just makes him feel even worse. “I’ll leave you boys to it and check you out at the register when you’re ready.”

Dean didn’t mean to come off so petulant. Normally he’s a pretty laid-back guy, and there isn’t a lot that gets to him besides family crap. Because those are the people who mean something. Any old stranger could come up to him and start a fight, and yeah, maybe he’d fight for the heck of it if the mood struck him. But it wouldn’t grate on him, and he certainly wouldn’t dwell on it after.

If he’s honest, though, he’s nervous and a little jealous, and those aren’t common feelings for him, so Meg pushing his buttons when she damn well knows Dean’s interested soured his mood and he snapped. And now, he feels lower than the scum at the bottom of a pond because he did it _in front of Cas_.

 _Helluva first impression,_ he thinks moodily.

Pouting and picking at the label on his beer, Dean’s startled by a light touch on his forearm, right below his rolled-up sleeve, and realizes he’s been sitting there brooding silently long enough to worry Cas. 

“Dean, _are_ you okay?”

Dean’s eyebrows rise. He shakes his head and looks at Cas with a tender smile, biting down the twinge of guilt in his gut. “Don’t worry about it. Like Meg said, we screw with each other. Sometimes we take stuff too far. But you and me? We’re good, I promise.”

Cas’ shoulders relax and he smiles softly back. “Good.” He scoots his plate forward, clearing a space to lean on one elbow, twisting the rest of his body to face Dean. Cas runs a hand through his hair, pushing it from his forehead, and says abruptly, “I'd like to take you up on your offer, if you are still amenable.”

“Offer?” Dean mimics Cas’ posture, one elbow on the counter facing him. He rests his jaw in the propped hand and lets the other settle on his thigh. Cas looks so serious, like he’s about to make him a business proposition.

“You asked if I wanted a stronger drink. Is that still on the table?”

Dean’s lips stretch into a goofy, lopsided grin. _Fuck yes!_ “Hell yeah, I’m amenable. Let’s get outta here.”

A flush of pink creeps up Castiel’s neck and his expression cracks, opens up with a brilliant, toothy smile, so big his eyes wrinkle in the corners. A real, genuine grin. Like sunshine parting through the clouds on a rainy day, Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so radiant.

It fills him with warmth, and not because he hopes it means he’s getting lucky tonight (fine, whatever, that’s definitely part of it) but mostly because Cas is a case he’s excited to crack, and few things can make a man talk like a good drink, better music, and a cozy, dimly lit booth, all of which he knows await them at Harvelle’s. 

Standing, Cas pulls out his wallet and saunters toward the register, shoulders straight and posture broadcasting confidence definitely not there before. Dean swivels in his seat and follows, unable to wipe the arrogant smile from his face. He ignores Meg’s perceptive look and doesn’t bother checking his other friends' faces behind him as they exit the diner.

The cool July air sweeps over Dean’s skin, crisp and refreshing. It’s a marked contrast to the hot and occasionally humid days, most of which he spends working outdoors fixing whatever needs it all around town.

Dean enjoys his job, the freedom of it. He goes where he’s needed and no job is ever exactly the same, and the best part? He gets to do it surrounded by family and friends, people he loves and cares for. It provides stability he lacked throughout his childhood and doesn’t take for granted now that he has it. 

He stretches, eyes closed. Leisurely locking both hands high above his head with a husky and contented groan, his plaid shirt flaps open as the breeze wisps across the exposed softness of his belly, just above the leather belt where his faded Black Sabbath t-shirt has ridden up.

Cracking one eye open, he finds Cas watching him and can’t tell if it’s a blush on his cheeks or a shadow cast from the streetlight above. Dean lowers his arms and self-consciously straightens his clothes.

To put it bluntly, he’s flirtatious by nature and wouldn’t know subtlety if it punched him in the face. Not that he’s vain or anything, but he knows he’s a good looking guy; fairly fit, he rocks the perfect balance between ruggedly handsome and dreamboat pretty and has taken advantage of that on many a lonely night. Plus, when it comes down to it, he can confidently bullshit his way through anything.

But, as Sammy frequently reminds him, he also drinks too much, eats terribly, and doesn’t work out as often as he should. Perhaps that's why a small nagging part of his brain eats away at him now, wondering how Cas feels about a little extra softness around the middle, if he finds Dean attractive or is simply being polite, if this invitation means what he hopes it means—

The clearing of a throat snaps him from that train of thought and back to the present. He's been staring. _Again._

“Oh, uh,” Dean mumbles, embarrassed, “Harvelle’s is right over there.” He points to the timeworn sign on the building across the street then steps off the curb, waving for Cas to follow. 

The rhythmic strumming of an electric guitar and steady beat of a drum flow through the wood door as they approach. He hums along to the familiar tune and holds it open for Castiel, because contrary to his brother’s belief, he can be a gentleman when he wants to.

The bar sits to the right of the entrance, giving Ellen an unobstructed view of the entry, emergency exit, and every table (because wherever drunk people are, there’s always a chance shit might get weird).

Harvelle’s Roadhouse isn’t the fanciest place, with rough wood floors, threadbare billiards tables, and fuck all for decor besides some neon beer lights and dartboards. It smells of sawdust, peanut shells, and liquor above the faint hint of Pinesol, the music is never too soft or too loud, and it's right up his alley. It’s comfortable, clean as a small town Roadhouse can be expected to be, and it’s Ellen’s, so Dean loves it like a second home.

Currently standing behind the bar, she raises an eyebrow when he passes by his usual seat, instead stalking toward the back corner booth with the most privacy. Dean climbs into it while Cas shucks off his trench coat and blazer, draping them on the opposite seat, finally giving Dean a small glimpse of the body hidden beneath all those ill-fitting layers.

And _fuck_ was he right. Cas is _hot_.

Surprisingly thick thighs strain against the seams of his slacks, which tell Dean that even if he does sit at a desk every day, his off-time is definitely not going to waste. The white collared button-down pulls taut over his shoulders, biceps, and chest, dipping to a slender waist.

He's lean and firm in a way that almost makes Dean’s mouth water _,_ and right when he's angling to get a view of Castiel's ass, the man slides smoothly into the seat across from him. Dean's head snaps back and he straightens, cheeks burning. Luckily Cas' eyes, blithely unaware of Dean’s gawking, drift around the room as he rolls his shirt cuffs up his forearms. 

Within moments, Ellen approaches their table, lips pursed as she scans the unfamiliar man sitting with her (sorta) nephew-slash-adopted-stepson. She’s always been protective of him and Sammy, and knows Dean’s history, so she’s testy about anyone he shows interest in.

Apprehension worms through him as he tries to send her a mental signal to please not give Cas “the talk” right here and now, and she gives him a look in return that says Dean’s gonna get one later regardless.

He breathes a sigh of relief when instead of grilling Cas, she asks, “What can I get you boys?” She glances at Dean. “The usual?”

“Whiskey,” they say in unison. Immediately, Castiel’s eyes meet Dean’s. He laughs, and Cas smiles bashfully, gaze breaking away to focus intently on the table.

Dean looks up at Ellen, who now has both eyebrows raised, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smirk that he can’t quite tell the meaning of. “The good stuff tonight, Ellen. A bottle, on me.”

Her brow goes up another centimeter. Dean never asks for expensive anything, aside from the rare luxury like his memory foam mattress (because he needs his four hours damn it and after a long life of hard, lumpy hotel beds and Baby’s backseat, he’s willing to shell it out to ensure they’re comfortable ones).

“You got it,” she says, giving Cas another once-over. 

“Are you sure?” Cas whispers, leaning forward over the table as Ellen leaves. “I can pay for my drink, it’s—”

Dean holds a hand up, cutting him off. “Nope. Coming here was my idea, so it's my treat. House rules.”

Cas’ contemplative, unblinking eyes fix on the planes of his face as though each feature is a piece of a puzzle Cas longs to solve. He feels them like a caress, sliding over his brow, down his cheekbones, along the hinge of his jaw. His breath hitches in his throat under such intense scrutiny.

“Are you trying to impress me, Dean Winchester?”

“Depends.” He grins, hoping he sounds a helluva lot smoother than he feels. “Is it working?”

Cas finally blinks, slow and awed like that wasn’t the answer he expected. He smiles a little too, uttering a soft, “Maybe,” in response, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes and Dean wonders again if the flirting is getting through. At least they have more privacy in the bar, not as many watchful eyes, and no more Meg leering at them.

By their third glass, Dean’s beginning to feel the buzz. Throat warm and slick like it’s coated in molasses, numb and tingling from the mild sting of the alcohol, head pleasantly fuzzy while he taps a beat with his fingers along to Bad Company playing over the bar’s speakers.

Cas takes a sip, humming appreciatively as the smooth, sweet amber liquid slips down his throat. And yeah, Dean’s watching every movement, not even trying to hide it anymore.

Simply put, there’s something about Castiel that sets his insides on fire, and not in the usual “let’s go back to my place and bone” way, though if Cas suggested it, he sure as shit wouldn’t argue. It’s in the “let’s go back to my place, bone, cuddle, and I’ll make you breakfast in the morning” way.

He _does_ want to impress him, he realizes. He wants Cas to _like_ him. He wants to know everything there is to know about the guy; where he’s from, what he’s doing in Eden, what’s his favorite food, drink, does he like cars, movies? Is he a morning person or night owl? Coffee or tea? Does he prefer waffles to pancakes, or is he a bacon and eggs guy? And... does he like men? 

“You grew up in Eden?” Cas says, interrupting the torrent currently whirling through his head. He looks up through his lashes as he sets his glass down.

“Yes 'n' no.” Dean tips his drink back, its delicious warmth sliding over his tongue. “I was born in Lawrence, Kansas. But—“ He pauses, unsure how much he wants to reveal about himself. He’s not typically the sharing type, but he’s whiskey-happy and there’s just something about Cas that makes him easy to talk to, like Dean can trust him. That alone is weird as fuck, just different enough to worm right into his gut and compell him to listen. “My mom died when I was four,” he blurts.

Cas’ eyebrows scrunch together with concern. His long fingers, now resting on the table just inches from Dean’s, twitch. “Oh, Dean,” he murmurs, oddly soft for such a deep, rumbling voice, “I’m sorry.”

Dean’s heart squeezes in his chest, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes the way they always do when he talks about Mary. He briefly closes them and sighs.

“Me too," he offers quietly, then clears his throat. "Dad uh, he moved us around a lot afterward and wasn’t exactly stable. Ex-marine turned bounty hunter..." he trails off for a second, glancing away. "We traveled the country, lived out of backwater motels, sometimes slept in the car for days at a time. Or he’d stick us with friends of his and take off for weeks, months. We spent a lot of time here in Eden with my uncle, but it always kinda felt like it was me 'n' Sammy against the world.”

Dean scrubs a hand over the late-evening growth covering his chin and shrugs. “He trained us like soldiers, wanted us to join the 'family business'. But we were just kids _,_ ya know?” Castiel nods attentively, something in his eyes telling Dean that maybe he understands, in his own way.

“And Sam, man, he was smart. Kid was going places. I think at some point Dad realized... Anyway, he brought us back here when I was fifteen, dropped us off with Bobby. Visited from time to time, but even when he was here, he wasn’t _here._ ” Dean sips his drink. Fiddles with the glass, voice choking on the memories. “He, um—he died after Sammy left for college. 'Bout eight years ago now.”

_Idiot_ , he thinks during the silence that follows. Now his tipsy ass has gone and sullied the mood. Dumping all his baggage out there like that and he barely met the guy—if this were by chance a first date and he was in Cas’ shoes? Shit, he’d be running for the hills right about now.

What happens instead is the last thing Dean expects. Warm and firm, Cas’ hand lands on Dean’s and squeezes gently. There’s no pity in his eyes, nothing to cause Dean to bristle, shut down, pull away. Just empathy, acceptance, validation.

With a simple touch and a look, he’s telling Dean that it’s okay, that in this moment at least, he is not alone. As small a gesture as it is, it’s still more than any of the meaningless platitudes he’s come to loathe hearing from others and brings a grateful smile to his lips.

Dean waits for the guy to move, say something, but he doesn’t. Pulse racing, his eyes flit to their hands for several long seconds before returning to Cas, whose gaze is steadfast, earnest. Dean lets himself get lost in that ocean of blue until Cas’ thumb strokes Dean's wrist, edging close to the soft, thinner skin above the vein.

Surely meant to be comforting, the effect it has on Dean is altogether different. Warmth spreads from that simple point of contact through the length of his body, culminating in a rush of blood southward. He tugs his jeans down by his knee, glad there’s a table obscuring Cas’ view.

When Cas releases his hand, Dean leans back, stretches his legs out, and drapes his arm over the back of the booth, trying (and likely failing) to keep the dopey grin from spreading across his face. He hopes he isn’t reading too much into this but frequent eye contact, physical touches, asking him questions about his life—gotta be good signs, right?

Dean asks, “So what’s your story,” idly twirling his glass, staring at the grooves in the wood beneath it so he doesn't seem overeager.

Cas reaches for the liquor bottle, pours them each another two fingers, then gulps his down and slouches against the seat, mirroring Dean. He tilts his head back, resting it on the leather and wood as he mumbles, “My story...” 

His voice is rougher and smoother all at once. Dark and full of whiskey-coated gravel, each syllable slurring together but only just enough to hint at inebriation. Dean licks his lips, capturing the lingering sweetness from his last drink, and watches as Cas’ eyes follow his tongue.

“I never knew my mother,” Cas continues, “and my father passed away a few days ago.” Dean visibly winces, sorry for bringing it up now, but Cas shakes his head and continues without hesitation. “It's okay. I mean, it’s not, but it wasn't unexpected." When Dean flashes a curious look, Cas replies, "Cancer."

“Ah,” Dean murmurs. “That sucks, man.”

“Yeah. I suppose my greatest regret is that I hardly knew him. He was rarely home when I was young, and we were never close. Soon as my brothers and I turned thirteen, he sent us to boarding school. It felt as though he controlled every aspect of my life. Still does, sometimes, even now that he’s gone...”

He can relate to that. “Sounds like we have more in common than I thought.”

Cas smiles wistfully, glancing down at his glass. “Indeed. Anyway, since turning eighteen and starting university, I’ve been on my own.”

Guy’s gotta be at least his age, so he’s been completely alone for what, a decade or more? Not that Dean’s life wasn’t screwed up, but at least he had Sam and Bobby, Ellen and Joanna Beth, all his friends here... Despite everything with his father and crappy childhood, he has had a good life since, surrounded by people he cares about and who care for him in return.

“Not gonna lie, man, that sounds lonely.”

Cas shrugs and waves it off. “It is not of import.”

Dean frowns. He has the urge to shake him and insist that it is but lets it go. "What about your brothers?”

Unexpectedly, Cas chuckles. An unabashed sound that reveals he’s never gotten this off his chest before, that rather than bringing the mood down it’s a _relief_. He can see it in the curve of his shoulders, in the carefree roll of his head and goofy grin now splayed over his lips.

“Michael is an ass. _The favorite._ And Gabriel, well... he's an ass too, in a completely different way, but he’s always been there for me. Sometimes I think Michael resents us because Gabe and I have always been more alike, more close. We were the rebels, the ones who ‘fell from grace’, so to speak.” 

Dean sits forward, eyebrows cocked, leaning both elbows on the table. Cas, a rebel? Guy doesn’t look the part, dressed as he is. _And he just used air quotes. What a nerd!_ (An incredibly hot nerd with a voice made for porn.) But Dean knows a thing or two about absent fathers, and sees a kindred spirit in Cas. It just intrigues him even more. 

“Damn, Cas." He laughs. "I can already see why we hit it off.”

Cas says nothing, just stares in a way that’s become oddly familiar to Dean even in the brief time since he’s met him. Doesn’t take long before Dean’s getting nervous. Not a bad nervous per se, more a “these butterflies need to cool their shit” nervous because suddenly the pie and alcohol aren’t the only things dancing in his stomach.

He anxiously wets his lips. “You okay, buddy?”

“You called me Cas.”

Dean’s brow creases. “Yeah?” He watches as the handsome brunet raises his glass and takes another drink, eyes never leaving Dean’s once.

“Gabriel calls me Cassie, or Casanova when he's being particularly facetious. It’s pointless to argue with him.”

“Oh. Sorry, I—”

Castiel’s arm shoots out. His long fingers wrap around Dean’s wrist, the skin of his palm hot and so soft it gives Dean chills again. “Don't worry. I like it... from you.”

He grips a little harder, and just as Dean’s hand comes to rest upon his, a kitschy disco tune starts playing under the table. Cas yanks his hand away as though burned and fumbles in his pockets for a minute before pulling out his phone. Blushing, he whispers, “Sorry,” before answering. 

“Hello, Gabriel.” Cas listens for a minute, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I’m here now. It'll need a lot of work first—what?” He pauses as his brother speaks, barely audible over the music. Dean thinks he hears the word “drunk” and ducks his head to hide a grin. “I'm an adult and perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thanks. Alright, fine. Yes, I'll call you tomorrow. _Okay_.”

Cas hangs up and glances at the screen, then his eyes widen. He quickly shoves the phone back in his pants and slides out of the booth. Dean watches, dumbfounded, while Cas shrugs on his blazer and coat.

He scoots to the edge of his seat and swings his legs out from under the table, eyes questioning as Cas moves toward him, stopping just an inch from Dean’s knees. Cas hovers there with that captivating stare like he’s waiting for Dean to speak, stand, anything.

And if he gets a silent thrill from the position they’re in, Cas with his wrinkled suit and crooked tie, with that ruffled, messy hair, standing between his legs so close he can just about feel that angelic warmth emanating from his body, the urge to grab his hand and pull him closer building by the second, well that’s his damn business.

“You’re leaving?” Dean swallows hard, an anxious half-smile twisting the edges of his lips. He sends a silent prayer to whatever god will listen that Cas says no, or asks him to come with.

Cas looks away. “Yes.” Dean’s heart plummets like a friggin' bowling ball and his smile follows suit. “I have to pick up some things for Claire before the store closes.” Cas fidgets, fingers clenching and unclenching. He looks down at his hands as though just realizing what they were doing and shoves them in his pockets. “I lost track of time.”

Dean didn’t think it was possible for his heart to sink lower, but it does anyway. He ducks his head. _Dude’s got a girlfriend, you moron, probably waiting for him at the motel_. And here Cas was, wasting his evening with him instead. Some washed up nobody and complete stranger.

“Oh. Cool. Well uh, it was nice to meet you, Cas.”

“I'm glad to have met you, too, Dean. I'd like to—um—” Cas pauses, shifting on his feet, mouth twitching like he can’t decide what to say, or doesn’t know the right words at all. His face draws blank as he decides, and his entire posture changes, going kinda rigid. “Thank you for the drinks.”

Dean stands, a plea on the tip of his tongue, but Cas is already turning away, mumbling a swift, “Goodbye,” over his shoulder. He thinks he sees a flicker of disappointment, sadness even, on his face but within seconds he’s through the door and gone. From the bar, and probably Dean’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brief mentions of death (their parents).  
> 
> 
> So we officially have our meet-cute. Or is it a pie-cute? 🤔
> 
> Thoughts/theories? Lemme know down below!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check end notes for content warnings (potential spoilers).

There’s precious serenity in the hour just before dawn, when the world still sleeps and the stars begin to haze across daubed gradients of black and indigo, wary of the approaching sun.

Years of involuntary conditioning find Castiel stirring just minutes shy of his alarm, and as always, the tranquility of those few cherished minutes begs him to linger. So he waits, willing his eyes to remain closed. Breathing, listening, the edges of his consciousness grasping at residual tendrils of a dream he’s already forgetting. 

Insects trill beyond the walls of his room, strange to ears accustomed to the daily rumble and quake of the nearby subway, honking cars, and the creaking, rattling pipes as the neighbor on the floor above runs their shower. This foreign sound is mollifying, peaceful, and sweet, lulling him through that opaque place between wakefulness and sleep. Woven among the muted noises, a voice whispers his name, repeating like the hook of a favorite song. A memory and remnant of his dream, it makes the urge to stay in this place, bide his time, that much stronger. More enticing.

The images behind his lids are no less vivid; the dusting of freckles beneath gleaming peridot eyes, a jawline like carved marble, and full, pink lips so perfect they were surely shaped by Cupid himself. A beautiful golden Adonis, in every sense of the word that matters, with powerful shoulders, adorably bowed legs, and a denim-clad ass that could make angels weep.

Suffice it to say, Dean Winchester is an incredibly attractive man. It’s an objective fact; he should be on magazine covers.

But the glowing, pleasant warmth that settled in Castiel’s chest upon meeting and getting to know Dean, however briefly, is tainted by familiar vines of doubt, creeping and tangling their sticky limbs around his heart. Not in a million years would a man like that be attracted to Castiel, even if he were, per chance, gay (and far be it for Castiel to assume, as past experience has taught him.) Mistaking the man’s politeness for interest would have undoubtedly ended in disaster.

Besides, one night stands are uncomfortable enough back in Boston where he can easily disappear among the crowds and never see that person again. In a small town like Eden, the chances of running into the man again are far too high. So while disappointed he did not act on the impulse, he's also a little relieved to avoid the consequences of taking such a risk.

“Mrrrraoow,” Claire croons, interrupting his moment of groggy introspection as she slinks up his torso to settle below his chin. He cracks one lid open, squinting up into her narrow, sky-blue eyes, visible by the light of the muted TV he’d fallen asleep to the night before. A paw soon follows, swatting tentatively at his nose.

He groans. “Okay, I’m up, I’m up.”

The air conditioner sputtered off sometime during the night, leaving the room uncomfortably humid. Even having thrown off the blankets and his shirt, Castiel’s boxers and pajama pants are damp with sweat, clinging to his form as he wobbles on stiff legs to the grey unit below the small window. He taps it, flicks the switch on and off, changes the fan level, all to no avail.

_Just my luck._

Sighing with weary resignation, he clicks the TV off and wanders into the bathroom.

The lobby is dark when he leaves the room dressed in his running shorts. There’s still time while he waits for the attendant—Ash, he recalls—to inquire about the broken unit in his room, so he sets a leisurely pace down the sidewalk past shops whose lights have barely begun flickering on, limbs still feeling as awkward and lethargic as his brain.

The sun peeks above the horizon, bathing the streets in its faint golden light, the streetlamps slowly petering out as he runs. The streets themselves are silent, mostly deserted save for a couple of trucks, but by the time he’s circled back toward Eden Lodge less than a half-hour later, more cars are filtering in and the lobby finally appears to be open. He stops at the gas station for coffee before heading across the street because, like most mornings, he's unwilling to speak to another human being without a healthy dose of caffeine in his system.

Ash now sits in a chair behind the front desk with a giant Monster Energy can beside his forearm, his mop of hair unruly from the early hour, wearing nearly the same attire as the day before but with a different vest. He’s zoned out pecking away at the keyboard of a strange-looking laptop, the wiring visible through its clear shell, but looks up briefly and waves when Castiel approaches.

“Good morning.” Castiel takes a breath, heart rate still settling after his exercise. “The air conditioner in my room is broken.”

“That sucks. My bad, man.” Ash’s gaze drops back to the computer like it contains solutions to all the world's problems and it's his sole job to fix them.

Castiel pauses, staring openly, eyebrows raised as he silently wills the man to continue. When he doesn’t, Castiel clears his throat with growing agitation. “Do I need to change rooms?”

“Nah. I got a dude I can call, he’ll take care of it.”

“Um, alright.” He wipes a clammy palm over his thigh. “Thank you.”

Ash doesn't even look up again, just shoots a quick thumbs-up his way. “No problem.”

* * *

Hangovers are a bitch.

Dean knows he brought it on himself, having spent a few hours at Harvelle’s polishing that bottle off after Cas left (well, until Ellen cut him off and forced some water down his gullet), but fuck if he will admit that out loud. Story of his life, really. Always keeping everything in.

Then the bright shaft of sunlight poking through his blinds shifts position, right across his face, and brooding finally begins to lose its appeal.

Pulse thrumming in his ears, head splitting in two, he drags himself upright despite the protesting muscles of his back and dangles his legs over the side of the bed. He’s not a hundred percent sure how he got home and is still in the same t-shirt and jeans as yesterday, but the brain fog is still strong enough for him not to care.

He checks his phone. It’s 8 a.m., a little later than he usually rises, but he’d lounged around that morning due in part to his condition, and because it’s Saturday, so he’s off at the shop. Not that it’s a regular nine-to-five, but he spends four days of the week there while reserving the other three for rest, time with family and friends, chores, and occasionally odd jobs around town.

Since Dean owns Traveling Riverside Repairs, he makes his own hours (though there’s a great deal of work required in running a business, between the hands-on aspects of the job and paperwork, so he still clocks more hours by far than anyone else). It’s given him the freedom and flexibility to do what he truly loves; help people. When something’s broke, they know who to call, and there’s little Dean needs more than to feel needed.

Another thing he won’t admit to, but it is what it is.

Dean has earned a reputation in Eden for reliability and altruism and it’s one of the things he’s most proud of aside from his brother. It wasn’t easy, and he struggled for a long time, building the shop from the ground up (literally).

But it put Sammy through law school, because even the full-ride to Stanford didn’t cover living expenses and housing, and Dean wanted all his brother’s focus on school, not hopping between classwork and a job. He wanted better for Sammy because that kid deserved the damn world even if Dean had to scrape and claw his way through to give it to him.

That said, now that Sam’s graduated and moved back to the area with fiance in tow, Dean’s realizing maybe he’s put his own needs, and wants, on the back burner long enough.

Living with Bobby was meant to be a temporary convenience because Eden’s not exactly bursting with real estate options and it allowed him to save up for the business and Sammy’s education. But it’s been less than convenient for Dean’s love life, or rather, the lack thereof.

Not that he has a _problem_ getting dates (or laid, for that matter), but the glamour of that life wears off _real_ quick. Sometimes… sometimes he doesn’t want to make the long drive of shame back home with an empty stomach and emptier heart. Or wake up to find the other person’s skipped out in the middle of the night. Yeah, it’s happened, even to _The_ Dean Winchester.

Though last night wasn’t really a date, it kinda felt like it at the time, and it’d been going so well that he thought, or at least hoped, Cas felt the same way. The whole thing was straight out of one of those romantic comedies he denies watching. Maybe he read the guy wrong, though. Wouldn’t be the first time and probably won’t be the last. 

Dean hasn’t been in many relationships, especially not with men (okay, none, technically, since traded blowjobs in backseats as a teenager and occasional one night stands as an adult hardly make the cut). Not because he’s ashamed, not since Dad…

Anyway, his sexuality is simply not something he advertises in and of itself. He just is who he is. Sammy knows he swings both ways, as do the rest of his family and friends. No one’s given him grief about it, at least not since high school, and that’s saying something here in the Midwest. 

And even if someone did, screw ‘em.

Dean doesn’t pull his punches when it comes to doing what he wants, when he wants, _who_ he wants. (His old principal said he had a “problem with authority” and Dean told him exactly where he could stick said authority. It didn’t go over well.)

So although he has a preference for women most of the time, and therefore more experience with them, Dean doesn’t shy away from his attraction to men, either. Regardless, as far as _relationships_ go, all but one ended before the two-month mark, and it’s one he’d sooner forget because the memory still cuts to the quick.

It would be a lie to say it’s all on them, though. It’s him, and Dean knows it.

There’s simply never been room for that in his life. Not while he was busy playing both mom and dad to Sammy, juggling work and school, scrounging to make ends meet, not to mention dealing with his own internal bullshit that even now he’d rather not think about. He can hardly fault anyone for thinking he’s too busy, too distracted, too burdened, too broken. He fucking is.

And you can only push people away for so long before they leave.

_They always leave._

But that doesn’t prevent the ache in his chest from expanding each year, that piece of him that’s always wanted a family and home of his own, a place in the world. A life he can share with someone who accepts him, who understands, who won’t use him up and toss him aside when they’re through and won’t let him do the same. Someone who loves him, flaws and all, who he can love in return. Someone who will _stay_.

Dean always figured when he met that person, he’d just… _know_. Like a chorus would go off or something, sparks would fly, a big flag would wave in his head that said right here, this one, they’re _the one_! And at that moment, all the other shit hanging over him would disappear, those old uncomfortable feelings he keeps buried, locked behind an impenetrable vault, and he’d let himself be _happy_ for once.

Unfortunately, life ain’t that simple, so he’s settled for the next best thing; taking affection where he can get it and keeping his mind numb and hands busy when it’s gone.

He scrubs both palms over his face like they can wipe the melancholy away. They don’t. So, with his brain pounding a steady beat inside his skull and stomach doing the mambo, he shucks off his pants and shirt, toes on his slippers, and shrugs into a bathrobe. Following the tantalizing promise of— _yes, please, now_ —caffeine floating through the air and squinting against the agony of light piercing his lids, he stumbles into the kitchen.

Bobby’s gruff, “Morning, Princess” greets him from across the table while Ellen frowns disapprovingly by the stove where she’s frying eggs. He knows the reason behind her expression but isn’t about to prod that issue with a twenty-foot pole before he’s even had his first sip of the day. Hopefully, she’ll be kind enough to give him a five-minute head start.

He nods wordlessly and pours coffee into the giant bi-pride-colored Star Trek mug his best friend Charlie got him for Christmas last year, then shuffles into the bathroom to rifle through the medicine cabinet for a bottle of ibuprofen. After popping two tablets and chugging a healthy dose of the refreshing black nectar, he turns to shut the door and finds Ellen leaning, arms crossed, against the frame.

“How you doin'?” she says in a slow drawl, her frown wavering somewhere between annoyed and concerned.

“I’m fine,” he responds evasively.

“Boy, don’t give me that ‘I’m fine’ crap. I’ve been married to _Bobby Singer_ long enough to call bullshit when I hear it.”

“Ellen, we went over this—”

“No. You moped till ya passed out and drooled on my bar—thanks, by the way—and I had to damn near carry you to my car, drag you home, and throw your pitiful behind into bed. That isn’t the same as _talking_.”

His ears burn red. _Crap. Baby._

“I know what you’re thinkin' and she’s fine. Had Joanna drive her home while you were dead to the world. But don’t you try to change the subject,” she says, wagging a finger at him. “I haven’t seen you like that since—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. Then, ashamed, his eyes immediately dart the floor. “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

“Dean…”

Her hand grips his shoulder, pulls him into her arms. There aren’t many people Dean lets do this, but Ellen’s the closest thing he’s had to a mom since age four. She smells like coffee, wood chips, and cinnamon, and there’s no arguing with her once she’s made up her mind, so he goes with it, sagging against the older woman and inhaling deeply as she strokes his back in small, soothing circles. Slowly, his tension begins to dissipate.

“It’s my job to worry about you boys. Just as much as I do with Jo.”

When she releases him, he rests his hip on the bathroom counter and picks up his coffee. “I know. I’m okay though." He takes another hearty gulp and sighs. "Just got my hopes up, I guess. I don’t know.”

“Honey, ya weren’t wrong to.” When he looks up, she’s smirking, a twinkle in her warm, wrinkled eyes. Her voice is just as assuring, but there’s a hint of mirth there that perks his ears up and makes him wary.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what happened, but from what I saw, and what Jo tells me, pretty boy was eyeballing you like a starving man looks at Thanksgiving dinner.”

He almost chokes on the coffee, and now he’s really blushing. “What!”

Ellen shrugs. “I just tell it like I see it. Anyway, take a damn shower. You smell like sweat and whiskey.” She eyes him critically for a second then seems to relent. ”I’ll leave some eggs and bacon out for ya on the counter.”

“Awesome.” He flashes her a winning smile. “Thanks, Ellen. You’re too good to me.”

She snickers, replying, “Yeah, don’t I know it,” as she turns away and flaps a hand over her shoulder.

He watches her leave, pondering. Maybe Cas’ weird stares weren’t just his imagination. It makes him feel a tiny bit better if it means he didn’t make a complete ass out of himself, because after finding out about the dude’s girlfriend he thought he’d been barking up the wrong tree the whole time. Could be Cas is like him and plays for both teams, so taken or not, he liked the attention.

Nothing wrong with that, he supposes. He got free pie and some decent conversation out of it, anyway. But it doesn’t change how the night ended, or the fact that Cas is gone. Dean rubs his temples, sets the coffee down, turns the shower on, and strips.

 _Oh, holy water pressure,_ he thinks as the steaming water courses over his stiff muscles.

Okay, that’s one thing he definitely can’t complain about at Bobby’s. A few years ago, he’d caved and fitted new, larger pipes to the well and bought a higher capacity pump. Figured it was the least he could do, including many other repairs he’d made around the house and salvage yard over time, but really he did it because he wanted to be able to take a decent, long shower without the pressure tapping out every time Ellen ran the dishwasher or did a load of laundry. Worth every hour of labor and every penny.

Apparently, his dick thinks so, too. That or the coffee’s finally scoured the last dregs of sleep away and this is delayed morning wood. He stares down at it, red and heavy between his legs, as though its very presence is an insult.

 _Rub it in, why don’t you_. _Wait, no, that’s exactly what it wants._

Chuckling darkly, he ignores it and quickly lathers shampoo into his hair, humming to distract himself. He tries not to think about him, he really does. But as he turns his face into the spray, eyes closed, a vision of blue dances behind his lids and he nearly whimpers from the pulse of longing it brings.

Strong, calloused fingers loosen the knot in his trapezius muscle before slowly drifting down to pick up the bar of soap. It’s all he can do to abstain, but the memory is still so bright, close enough he can almost touch it. Awkward and quiet one moment, yet confident and blunt the next. The owlish tilt of his head, so endearing Dean can hardly stand it. And that smile—God, that smile. 

There's a fantasy already prepared in his mind, one he’d been too drunk last night to act on. Unsurprising, really, because it’s been a while since he’s been with anyone and, like ships passing in the night, Cas is a mystery, an unknown element amidst the familiarity and routine of Dean’s life. Fascinating because he’s new, different, and unbelievably sexy—nothing more—because he can’t be more, can he? He’s unavailable, he’s gone, Dean will never see him again (and fuck that shouldn’t hurt so much but it does, oh how it hurts).

It’s not like Dean’s never rubbed one out to the thought of a stranger; he watches so much porn there’s an entire movie reel compiled in his mind he can select favorite scenes from at will. So what’s the harm?

(He ignores the dark, skulking region of his brain faintly screaming, muffled and distant though it is by the gaping chasm between it and his yearning, _all of it, all of it is harmful, forget him, don’t do this, you’ll only make it worse, always wanting what you can’t have, everyone leaves._ )

The new scenes dedicated to Castiel’s memory are fleeting and precious, innocently chaste, and yet that much more agonizing for it. Dean’s never seen what lies beneath the clothing, never heard the man gasp in pleasure or whine with need, but he doesn’t need to to get his engine revved.

 _Cas_ is enough.

With his stupidly sexy hair, so soft and just long enough to pull, his perceptive stare, so earnest and open as though no one’s ever told him there’s such a thing as _too much_ eye contact, and his husky fucked-out voice saying, _I want to, Dean,_ which quickly turns into, _I want you, Dean_ , and—

Yeah. Dean’s screwed. Maybe there weren’t _literal_ sparks but there might as well have been for the candle he’s got burning. Even if the other crap didn’t get magicked away, it’s enough for Dean to sit up and take notice, and part of him is most decidedly _up_ right now.

Groaning, he steps back from the stream and drags the soap across his chest, over his arms, and rubs it into a thick lather between his hands before setting it back in the crevice built into the tile. Nails flick teasingly over his nipples, pinching and pulling. Rough palms skirt along his torso, down his narrow hips.

He imagines briefly that it’s Cas’ touch, _his_ hands, grasping the paler flesh usually hidden beneath layers of plaid and denim. _His_ nails dragging up Dean’s thighs, palms cupping and rolling the heavy sac between, fingers tangling in the coarse thatch of hair at their apex, and son of a bitch, he’s so hard it almost _hurts_.

When his fingers finally wrap around his straining erection, he imagines that rough voice dipping another octave, rumbling his name, drawing a heady moan from his own lips. He braces the other hand on the shower wall, widens his stance, and lets his head hang between steamed-pink shoulders as he strokes. Long, steady pulls from base to tip and down again.

Slow,

teasing,

 _torture_. 

Closing his eyes, he sees Castiel’s soft lips. His long, pink tongue wetting them before they meet Dean’s and fuck, Cas tastes like Heaven, smells like sunshine and rain and Dean wants more, _more_ , wants to lose himself in those eyes, that smirk. Wants to drag his lips over that stubble-darkened jaw and strong, dimpled chin, licking and nibbling his way down the bare expanse of lightly tanned skin to the starched white collar below.

In his mind, Cas slots between his legs and Dean feels him through those sinfully tight slacks, proof that Cas wants this too, he wants Dean, and Cas tells him he’s good, _so good_ , drops to his knees, and moans as he takes Dean into his mouth. Canting his hips and fucking his hand, he sinks into that delicious, wet heat with a barely bitten-off moan and anything Cas wants, he'll give.

Focusing on that sweet spot just below the crown as he fists his cock, twisting his wrist on the upstrokes, the pressure builds and builds low in his groin, winding tight—oh, _fuck_ , _so tight—_ until it snaps and with a sharp, stuttered grunt he comes down Cas’ throat, painting hot white stripes across the ceramic beneath his feet.

He stills, panting and trembling, body sagging, forehead pressed against the cool tile of the shower wall as the fantasy dissipates and bitterness takes its place. Physically, he's sated and blissed out, but it’s not the relief he wished for because the longing… the longing and the loneliness remain.

Dean watches the water wash away the evidence of his morning escapade before turning it off, musing, _is it creepy to Google Castiel Shurley? Does he have any social media? For all I know this elusive Claire is the guy’s sick aunt or—or his_ daughter _or something, so maybe there’s still a chance_ —

Out on the bathroom counter, his phone rings, and reality hits him like a brick. He shakes off those thoughts and yanks back the curtain. Grabbing a towel, he wraps it around his waist as he steps down to the rug below, curling his toes in the plush, damp material.

He answers brusquely, “Winchester.”

“Yo, man, what’s up?” 

“Whaddaya want, Ash?”

“So uh, the A/C in one of the rooms is fucked up. You off today?”

“You know I am.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Be there in twenty.”

* * *

After leaving the lobby, Castiel had headed back to his room, planning to jump in the shower right away. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of sitting on the bed, and almost immediately, Claire nestled in his lap.

He resigns himself to satisfying her demand for attention, turns the television on for some comforting white noise, and ends up wasting twenty minutes flipping through the few available channels before finally settling on a nature documentary. Taking the moment to relax and caffeinate, he passes the time idly stroking his tabby's silken fur. It doesn't take long to finish the drink, though, at which point the sweaty clothing and muggy room have seriously begun to irritate.

“Sorry, Claire,” he says, gently scooping her up and depositing her on the bed beside him.

She gives him a look that says “how dare you” before jumping down to the floor, sulking irritably toward her food dish.

Chuckling fondly, he tosses the empty cup in the trash, immediately pulls off his shirt and shorts and tosses them in in the corner. Eyeing the small pile of clothes accumulating there, he makes a mental note to stop at the public laundromat nearby within the week.

He doesn’t bother waiting for the shower to heat before stepping inside, hissing as the cool water hits his skin. The shock of it stirs him further awake, and it’s a stark relief from the summer heat outside. Before long, however, steam begins to fill the room, so he pops the cap off the small travel shampoo he bought and lathers the suds into his hair. He’s barely scrubbed and rinsed the sweat from his skin when someone bangs on the front door. 

Castiel hurriedly turns off the shower and jumps out, yelling, “Just a minute!” He wipes down as quickly as he can and tugs on fresh boxers, a pair of dark-wash jeans, and navy t-shirt which sticks to his damp skin. 

The impatient banging resumes. Annoyed and grumbling, he pads across the shag carpet on bare feet, still rubbing his dripping hair with the towel. Castiel cracks open the door to find green eyes staring at him. He squints back.

“ _Dean_? What are you—”

Even though he knew seeing Dean again was a possibility, he did not expect him to show up at _his room_ , and certainly not so soon. Dean looks equally surprised, if not more so. Opening the door wider, he notices a bright pink flush rising beneath the handsome man’s freckles as his gaze roams. Castiel looks down at himself, confused as to why his appearance would garner such a reaction.

“Cas?” Dean says, voice cracking with nerves. 

That nickname again, in the voice that plagued his dreams all night… It’s immensely pleasing. Endearing, even. Despite all better judgment telling him not to indulge in this man’s company, to delight in Dean’s beguiling idiosyncrasies, he wants to hear Dean say it again and again. He wants to hear it in every tone, from breathy whispers to higher whines. 

Wants to _make_ Dean say it.

The thought, however fleeting, carries with it a stir of excitement that leaves him breathing through his nose and clenching his jaw to will away. He barely manages a weak and strangled, “Y-yes?” 

“You’re still—sorry”—Dean’s eyes flit to his mouth before darting away—“Ash called me a while ago. He, uh, said the A/C is broken?”

Castiel’s eyes drop to the toolbox held beside Dean’s thigh and widen with understanding. “Oh.” 

If Castiel is more than a little disappointed that Dean isn’t there specifically to see _him_ (because why would he be), he doesn’t show it. The combined decades growing up with older brothers and in private boarding schools taught him quite well how to appear neutral and unfazed by just about anything. He steps back and gestures for him to enter.

Dean strides through, eyes darting around the room as though he’s looking for something. He frowns at the empty room, glancing again at Castiel before quickly looking away and placing the tools on the table beside the window. There’s tension in the line of Dean’s plaid-covered shoulders ( _green today_ , he notes), but Castiel is distracted from it by the gap of smooth, pale skin revealed between belt and shirt as Dean kneels to inspect the A/C. He quickly averts his gaze before his thoughts can wander further.

“ _So_ ,” Dean starts, tone strained by an affect of nonchalance Castiel doesn’t entirely buy. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?” he echoes, eyebrows knitting in confusion. “I’m—I don’t have a girlfriend.” He breathes out unsteadily. It’s not often he fumbles his words, but he came far too close to outing himself to someone who is still essentially a stranger. A man he is most decidedly attracted to and was skirting the line of _almost drunk enough to proposition_ the night before.

Gabriel always tells him he is too honest for his own good, and as much as he’s loath to admit it, his brother is usually correct. 

Dean stops fiddling and half-turns, still crouched. “Then who—”

Just then, Claire comes sauntering out from behind Castiel. A confounding mixture of emotions oscillate over Dean’s face, too rapidly for him to comprehend before the man’s lips stretch into a broad grin. The sight tugs at something within Castiel, makes his heart skip a beat.

“Claire is your _cat_?”

He tilts his head at the incredulity in his tone. “Yes,” he replies, but it comes out more like a question than a statement. 

Sitting on the bed facing Dean, he watches as Claire noses the man’s legs, sniffing warily at the stranger invading her territory. Dean stiffens, his smile shifting into a grimace, but within seconds he relaxes and reaches down to let her smell his palm. She does, then nuzzles against it.

“Claire’s not usually so friendly to people she doesn’t know.” He murmurs, smiling fondly, “She must like you.”

“I get the feline seal of approval, awesome.” Dean glances up, eyes glistening. “She’s real pretty. Eyes like-like—” His face contorts, nose wrinkling and within seconds erupts with a massive, painfully loud sneeze, sending Claire scurrying between Castiel’s legs to hide beneath the bed with a sharp hiss. “Sorry!” Dean says, appearing genuinely contrite even as he rubs his nose against the back of his hand. “I’m uh, kind of allergic.”

“Oh.” Castiel’s heart sinks a little for reasons he can’t quite discern. “My apologies. I can put her in her crate while you work.”

Dean waves it off. “It’s cool.” He picks up a screwdriver and begins removing the outer casing of the A/C unit. “It’s not that bad, won’t kill me or anything. I can pop a Claritin and I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Yeah, don’t worry, Cas. Just hope this doesn’t change her mind about me!”

“She’s quite stubborn, but I believe she will forgive you,” Castiel says, watching as Dean gingerly removes the plastic outer lining and begins poking around inside. “This is what you do, then?”

“Not all I do, no.” Dean shoots him a look over his shoulder. “Started out as a mechanic, but there’s not a ton of business for it in a small town like this. Only so many cars, you know, and I had to pay bills somehow. Got my contractor license and opened up a shop that does a lil’ bit of everything. First and only place like that in Eden.” Castiel doesn’t have to see his face to know he’s beaming with pride. “Cars, houses, crap like this. You name it. Basically, if it needs fixing, I’m your guy, and I've got a few locals hired on for the weirder stuff I can’t do myself. Before, people were stuck jerry-rigging things by themselves or hiring fancy, expensive companies from the city.”

The enthusiasm in Dean’s voice fills Castiel with warmth. He wonders, _what would it be like, to love what I do the way Dean does? To have a home, and a place in the world, a purpose?_

He studies Dean, mentally compiling a list of attributes that stand out. While Dean has numerous physical characteristics that anyone would find pleasing, it’s the inner workings of the man that intrigue Castiel the most. Despite the difficult childhood he described the evening prior, he shows remarkable resolve and determination. He is kind beneath the sarcastic, flirty, sometimes brusque exterior that Castiel is already beginning to believe is a protective front. He’s adaptable, down to earth, charming, and adorably passionate. Dean is utterly unlike anyone Castiel has ever met, and a swell of something akin to fondness builds within him as he absorbs this new information and catalogs it beside the rest.

“You’re incredible,” he blurts. Then feels himself blush, embarrassed by the outburst. "What you do for the people here, I mean. It's amazing."

The tool Dean is now holding, which Castiel doesn’t recognize because he knows little to nothing about tools to begin with, clatters to the floor. Dean scrambles to pick it up again, muttering something under his breath before returning to his task.

“Not really.” He chuckles, but the sound lacks his usual sincerity and his shoulders are stiff, as are his movements. “I’m just your average Joe, nothing special. What I do have, though, is a GED and a ‘give ‘em hell’ attitude. It ain’t much, but it’s gotten me this far.”

Castiel sits forward, lips pursed. Hearing Dean speak about himself in such a way hits a nerve. “That’s not true at all. You’re not ‘Average Joe’, you're Dean Winchester. And from what I have heard, you have many admirable qualities.”

Dean lowers the tools, his head hanging in a similar fashion. “You really say whatever’s on your mind, don’t you, Cas?” he murmurs softly. 

Castiel frowns. _Not everything…_

His lips part, but sound sticks in his throat. He worries that perhaps he’s overstepped, but when Dean turns his whole body around to look at him, his face is flushed all the way to the tips of his ears and his expression is almost… shy? Yet again, Dean Winchester surprises him. Within seconds, though, the bashful look evaporates into a cocky smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Dean shrugs one shoulder.

_Again with the mask._

Castiel desperately longs to claw it away, to witness that vulnerability again, to know every part of Dean, place each one on a shelf where he can examine them at will, touch them and cherish them, treat them as the delicate and beautiful artifacts they are. But that feeling is dangerous, one Castiel is not willing to indulge, or perhaps unable to. He tamps it down, locks it in a box, buries it. 

_Focus, Castiel._

“What can I say?” Dean winks. “I’m a man of many talents.” 

Castiel stares into the middle distance beyond Dean’s shoulder, thinking. _Many… talents. No, don’t go there._ Distracted, he nearly misses the way Dean’s eyes are roving down, lingering on his biceps where they strain against the shirt before bouncing back up to meet Castiel’s startled gaze. He feels heat rising to his cheeks and shifts on his ass. _Is he fucking with me?_

“How long?” he says bluntly, eager to change the subject.

Dean blinks rapidly and the room goes quiet long enough to be awkward. “Wh-what?”

“The A/C. How long will it take to fix?”

“Oh, uh.” Dean clears his throat and turns away. The back of his neck is still pink. “Maybe an hour, if you got somewhere you need to be. Gotta refill the freon and it looks like the reed valves on the compressor are loose.” Dean could have been speaking another language for all the sense that makes to him.

“No. I don’t have a vehicle. But I do need to make a call, if you don’t mind.”

Dean shrugs again without looking at him. “Nah, go ahead.”

Castiel rises and steps outside, digging his phone out of his jeans. He ends up spending twenty minutes on hold with the power company while Dean removes the entire A/C unit, leaving a giant rectangular gap beneath the window. He ducks his head in the door to warn Dean to keep an eye out for Claire so she doesn’t run, though he doubts she will. Dean is on the floor with his sleeves rolled up, wearing thick plastic glasses and work gloves, but gives him a thumbs up, so he closes the door and spends another half-hour arranging for the electricity to get turned on at the house.

By the time the call is over, he’s feeling irritable and drained, and his stomach is beginning to protest its emptiness. Reentering the room, he flings the phone at the bed before flopping into the chair beside Dean, who is mounting the A/C back into the wall.

Dean chuckles. “That bad, huh?” He tugs off his gloves and glasses, sitting back on his haunches. 

“It was taxing, yes. My people skills are 'rusty'. But I think everything has been resolved.”

“Issues back home?”

“No. I have some business to take care of here.”

At that, Dean hums, plopping onto his butt and shifting to face Castiel. He stretches his legs out, twisting his neck side to side, working out the kinks from squatting in the same position too long. The relieved groan which escapes Dean’s lips is not lost on him, and he prays his face remains impassive despite the momentary hitch of his breath. 

“So, Cas. You never did tell me why you came to Eden,” Dean says, peering up at him through impossibly long lashes. 

Castiel sits forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. “I told you that my father died,” he says, albeit hesitantly. He doesn't quite have the same liquid courage to discuss his family today. Dean just nods. “He grew up here, and his childhood home was left to me. Well, to Gabriel and me.”

Dean’s mouth hangs open as the gears visibly turn in his mind. “Wait… _Shurley_. Why didn’t I think of that before! Your _dad_ was _Chuck Shurley_?”

Castiel stares, bewildered. He’d never heard anyone call his father that before. His brother would probably joke that no one who had “ lived to tell the tale” or some such nonsense. Perhaps it was his attempt to put distance between himself and his small-town roots.

“Chuck?” he repeats. His throat feels suddenly dry. “Charles. He went by Charles. But yes.”

“Holy shit!” Dean slaps his knees, grinning like a madman.

“Excuse me?” Castiel says, head tilted.

“What are you gonna do with the house?”

Castiel shrugs. “I considered selling it, but Gabriel thinks I should quit my job and move in because it would be ‘good for me’.”

Pushing off the floor with a grunt, Dean begins pacing the room, his expression suddenly pensive. There’s a fire in his eyes Castiel hasn’t seen before, yet it reminds him of the passionate way he’d spoken about his job earlier. 

“Dean? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Dean waves a hand, the other coming up to stroke his sharp jaw. “Have you seen it?” he says, stopping in front of Castiel.

“Yes. Why?”

“But you might sell it?”

“The electricity is getting turned on today. This room is paid for up to the end of the week, but I planned to stay there for a while after if it’s livable. For all I know, there could be asbestos everywhere or a cracked foundation. I didn’t check the plumbing or anything else.”

Dean hums noncommittally, pausing to sit on the edge of the bed beside Castiel’s chair. “I want to make you an offer.”

Just then, Castiel’s stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud rumble. A blush quickly rises to his cheeks as Dean belts out a deep, husky laugh.

“How about you and me go get some grub, and then I’ll explain? A/C is good to go.” Dean pats his own stomach, still smiling. “It’s about lunchtime anyway.”

* * *

It’s almost like deja-vu walking into the diner again, even with the sun’s rays now reflecting across the checkered floor, polished to a gleaming shine. But the anxiety from the night before is replaced by a feeling of comfort because already, this place holds a pleasant memory for Castiel. Today, he takes more time appreciating it, noting all the things he’d been too distracted to see before.

There's obvious pride in the way it has been so carefully maintained. Everything looks original aside from the reupholstered red vinyl seats, including the jukebox on the far side of the room rotating through old records. Framed pictures of varying sizes line the walls, some black and white, some color, depicting what he guesses are locals throughout the restaurant's lifespan, and they make his heart glow, touching him in a way nothing has in a long time, if ever. It may be just a diner, a passing stop for those traveling through on their way from point A to point B, but to the locals, it’s a part of the soul of Eden. It's comfort, familiarity, love. _Home._

Instead of taking their former places at the counter, Dean steers him with a palm against the small of his back toward a booth near the front window. Castiel fights the urge to close his eyes and lean into Dean’s strong, broad hand, its warmth seeping through the dark blue cotton, and regrets its loss the moment they arrive at their seats.

Dean slides him a menu, but it’s difficult to concentrate, the words blurring together as his gaze drifts between the laminated pages and Dean’s face across from him. He can’t help but be overwhelmed, both by his curiosity about Dean’s “offer” and by the mere proximity of the man. It’s no more a date than last night; just two acquaintances getting lunch. There’s a dangerous sliver of hope, however, one that makes him naively wish these meetings, and meals together, will continue. The dark cloud above it tells him there’s no point. But if he stayed, maybe—

“Well, well, well. Made it to the morning after?” Meg says, hovering at the edge of their table with a conspicuous glint in her brown eyes. “This one must be something special, huh?” 

Dean snorts derisively and Castiel sucks in a terrified breath. _Wait, is she implying that we…?_

A memory long-buried flashes through Castiel’s mind. It was his final year of boarding school; he’d made a close friend there, one he’d begun developing interest in. When a classmate took notice and made an offhand joke, much like this one now, about the two possibly “hooking up”, Bartholemew responded defensively and with obvious revulsion. The friendship dissolved quickly after that, as his friend became distant and the two grew apart. After graduation, Castiel never saw him again, and he put the whole thing behind him—or so he thought.

The wave of nausea curling in his gut like a snake readying itself to strike right now proves otherwise. 

Anxious, he looks at Dean across the table. He expects a disgruntled scowl to reveal his feelings toward her insinuation, and is shocked to find no hint of that on the man's face. Rather, he’s grinning broadly at Meg, as smug as Castiel has ever seen him. Dean’s eyes seek out Castiel’s and he braces himself, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“He sure is,” Dean says confidently.

Castiel exhales in a rush, jaw hanging open for several seconds before he snaps it shut, swallowing with an audible click. His mouth is horribly dry. Eyes falling to his lap, he finds his hands had fisted upon his knees. He relaxes them now, fingers aching.

Dean thinks he’s _special_? What does that mean, though? Why is he playing along, making it seem like they were intimate? That is not the reaction he anticipated from a straight man, but it is comforting to know that even while unaware of Castiel's orientation, he isn’t bigoted.

“So,” Meg starts, “what’ll it be today, handsome?”

Still reeling and a bit lost in his own thoughts, Castiel croaks the first thing that pops into his mind. “Water.”

“That it? Come on. Big, strong guy like you needs his calories.”

His eyebrows knit. _Hot stuff, handsome, big and strong._ She frequently references his looks, and now he is unsure whether she's doing so to tease the two men or sincerely finds him attractive. "I'm sorry, is that a flirtation?" he asks.

Meg’s eyes narrow briefly at Dean as he bursts into raucous laughter, slapping a hand on the table before she flashes another lascivious grin in Castiel’s direction. "It's whatever you want it to be, Clarence." She winks, openly appraising him. "Just stating the obvious."

 _Oh._ So she does mean it.

Uncomfortable with the attention, he squirms a little, unable to think of a polite way to turn Meg down without either outing himself or hurting her feelings and making things awkward. He glances furtively at the man across from him, his gaze pleading.

With a minute nod as though they'd communicated telepathically, Dean clears his throat and his eyes flit to Meg. "How about two beers?" he suggests flippantly.

Castiel breathes a sigh of relief and smiles, grateful for the save. "Isn't it early for alcohol?" he says.

A roguish grin spreads over Dean's face. "It's 6 p.m. somewhere."

Castiel shrugs and follows his lead, giving Meg his order and settling back against the booth. Thankfully, she says nothing about the deflection, and their meals arrive before long.

From then on, their conversation is pleasant and amusing. Dean attacks his food with the same enthusiasm it seems he does all things. The rambunctious way he eats and simultaneously talks would have earned him a ruler across the knuckles at Castiel's old school, yet Castiel doesn't mind, too distracted by the brilliant gleam in his verdant eyes. Dean's energy and presence are intoxicating, and he thinks mildly that he could spend a lifetime observing the man as he engages in the most banal of activities. Watching TV on a lazy summer afternoon. Grilling burgers outside in the fall. Curled up under a blanket with him in the winter…

Castiel has never been the talkative type, least of all around strangers. Yet despite having barely met, he feels oddly at ease with Dean. It's a familiarity bred not from time, but from what he supposes Gabriel would ascribe to "chemistry". Around Dean, Castiel can simply _be_. It is novel, and a little terrifying, but not entirely unwelcome. So he relaxes with a roll of his shoulders, having long ago finished the meal, and contents himself with listening as Dean regales him with stories about the town, his business, his life. He asks questions when it is prudent to do so, but for the most part, allows Dean to steer the conversation down whatever path he wishes.

Dean tells Castiel about his uncle and surrogate father Bobby, about Ellen and Jo. He tells him about his brother, the girlfriend Sam brought home from Stanford, and the many friends he's made here over the years (including a few who did not start out that way, like Meg). From what Castiel can deduce, the front he keeps up is not quite so effective at hiding his soft, loveable inner workings as Dean seems to think. Even those initially put off by Dean's brash outer demeanor and sarcastic attitude end up prey to his charms before long. 

Eventually, the topic circles back to the diner. Dean explains that Meg is actually the owner, which leads Castiel's eyebrows to crease in confusion.

"Then who is Tina?" he asks.

Dean laughs. "Meg's dad ran this place before he retired. Apparently, old man Masters had a thing for this stripper. So he named the diner after her, and the sign out front? Yeah, looks just like her, or so he says."

Baffled, he inclines his head, lips pursed. "The diner is named… after a stripper."

"What I tell you, man, we got some strange folks here. But they're good people. It's a good town. Once it gets its hooks in you it's hard to let go."

Castiel has never felt that level of comfort anywhere. He yearns, so deeply that it aches, to know what it’s like. To comprehend Dean’s meaning, not in an abstract, theoretical sense but to truly _feel_ at home somewhere. To have a family. To not wake and perform the rote functions of daily life, idle and hollow as they are, alone, spending each workday ravenous for the rare weekends he gets to visit with his small circle of friends. Returning to his empty apartment night after night with only Claire to keep him company.

Castiel wants to _belong_. He _craves_ it.

He stifles a cough behind his fist at the realization that Dean’s repeated his name several times without an answer. “My apologies.”

“You good?” Dean says, his brow pinched with concern. 

“I’m fine,” he replies quickly. The response is automatic, more a force of habit than anything. “What was your question?”

“About that offer…”

“What kind of offer, exactly?”

Dean’s lips twitch up at the corners, but his eyes cast away and his hands are restless. It’s an unusual display of nerves that jolts Castiel’s heart rate up a notch. “Okay, this is gonna sound weird, but hear me out.”

Castiel frowns, leaning forward with elbows on the table, fingers forming a pyramid beneath his chin. “ _Okay_ ,” he says slowly.

“I’ll help you with the house.”

His eyes widen. For whatever reason, the idea hadn’t crossed his mind. While he knows Dean is likely the best candidate to do so in all of Eden, and he’d been eagerly (and anxiously) anticipating a mysterious reveal throughout their time at Tina’s, it still shocks him. A “yes” forms readily on the tip of his tongue but he bites it back. He must be logical about this, strategic. Gather the facts. _Don't be stupid, Castiel,_ Michael says in his mind. _You're too impulsive._

He shakes it off, resisting the part of him that floods with shame at knowing even from afar, and after all these years, his brother still gets to him. He can visualize Michael’s steely eyes, his hard, unforgiving face. Can feel the disappointment rolling off him in waves, and he’s not even in the damn room. Castiel shudders.

“You don’t have to do that, Dean.”

“Dude, I want to!” he says excitedly. “And it’s not about the money. Hell, I’ll do it for free.”

“But… why?”

Dean rubs the back of his neck. “Look, I won’t lie to you, Cas. It’s not the first time I’ve worked on that house.”

Castiel sits back, alarmed. “What?”

“Yeah, uh, your old man and Bobby knew each other way back when. After Chuck—er, Charles, whatever—left Eden, he asked him to keep an eye on the place. You know, clean the gutters, maintain the land, tidy up inside from time to time. He paid Bobby and everything. Sammy and I used to go over and help out, and after he left for college, I took over the job. Just checked it out on weekends and stuff, did minor repairs.”

That explained why the house hadn’t fallen apart, but it still looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. Castiel hums curiously. “But you stopped.”

“Yeah. Payments quit comin’ in, and Bobby said your dad stopped calling. Didn’t know why. Figured he gave up on the place or something.” Dean shrugs. “I still went by every once in a while to mow the lawn and shit, but after my business took off and we hadn’t heard from Chuck in a couple of years…” he trails off. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Castiel says lowly, shaking his head. “After he fell ill and was hospitalized, Michael took over the company and our father’s finances. I have a feeling he is the one who stopped paying for its upkeep.”

Dean takes a swig of his beer and nods, gazing beyond Castiel’s shoulder as he absorbs this new detail. “Makes sense.”

“That doesn’t tell me why you’d want to go back to it, though. Work on it again.”

“You’re right when you said the house needs work. It’s been a while but I’ve seen it inside and out and I got a rough guess of what needs done. Usually, the house jobs I do around here are small potatoes like, extending a porch or patching someone’s old roof, minor repairs. I enjoy it, don’t get me wrong, but I haven’t had a project like this in years. Besides, Cas, I want to help you.”

“You don’t owe me anything. You don’t even know me, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes narrow, the lines bracketing his mouth deepening into a frown. Castiel thinks he sees a flash of disappointment there, but can’t ascertain why. “I didn’t say I have no conditions,” he mumbles.

Has he offended Dean somehow? Castiel swallows thickly. “And what are your conditions?” 

“I’ll work for room and board. Long as you pay for what materials I can’t get through my business or from Singer’s Salvage, the labor’s covered.” 

Castiel stills, not quite sure how to process what he just heard. They sit in silence for a long, awkward minute until Dean begins shifting nervously in the seat across from him, spinning his bottle on its axis with a forefinger and thumb.

“You want to _move in._ With me.” 

“You're not a serial killer or anything, right?" Dean says, eyes twinkling mischievously. Castiel chuckles and shakes his head. "I did say this would sound weird. Look, there ain’t exactly a booming market around here, and I’ve been eyeballing that house for years. All that character and history, just sitting there abandoned. It’s a damn shame. It’ll be faster and easier to get crap done if I’m already there, and if you decide later you do want to sell it, I want dibs on the listing.”

Some of the tension bleeds away as Castiel leans back, musing. It does sound reasonable, and Dean has far more experience with this sort of thing than he does. He can’t help the bubble of excitement stirring in his gut at the prospect. Not only having someone’s aid with the house but being close to Dean, spending time with him, watching him work; it’s appealing, to say the least.

Though alarms are blaring in his mind, warning him of the risk of allowing these feelings to grow roots, the temptation is too great. In the end, Dean’s eager, beautiful face, his pleading gaze, his infectious passion seals the deal. Castiel’s mouth twitches as he fights back a grin, trying to remain aloof and not showcase exactly how excited he is to Dean.

“But what if I decide to stay here?” he says. He tosses back the final sip of his second beer. “What will you do?”

“Shit, Cas, we could be roommates!” Dean says boisterously, but quickly adds, “Or kick me out, whatever, I can move back into Bobby’s. Don’t matter.”

“I wouldn’t do that to you, Dean.”

“Keep sweet-talking me like that and we’ll be best friends before you know it.”

Castiel holds his hand out over the table. Dean cheerfully accepts it, clasping his second hand over their linked ones and fuck, a simple handshake shouldn’t give him such a thrill but it does. The smile Dean offers him is exhilarating, his voice laced with promises Castiel can’t begin to analyze as his focus narrows down to the sensation of Dean's strong, capable fingers against his. 

“Then we have a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:   
>  NSFW Content   
>  Sexual Fantasy, Masturbation
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, [lostinfantasies38](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostinfantasies38/pseuds/Lostinfantasies38/works) and [elephino_forthehalibut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephino_forthehalibut/profile) for reviewing this chapter for me!
> 
>   
> Hope everyone is staying safe and healthy out there. And please, I thrive on comments!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check end notes for content warnings.

Every day since Castiel made the deal with Dean, whatever time the other man hasn’t spent working, he’s relegated to spending time with him.

Castiel tries not to search for intent where there is none, determined to believe Dean’s sole priority is getting the house in order. Yet that doesn’t explain the “Mornin’ Sunshine” text he wakes to on Sunday, two hours before Dean picks him up to view the house. Or Dean showing up at the motel with dinner wrapped to-go Monday _and_ Tuesday evening after work, freshly showered and smelling so delectable it takes all Castiel’s willpower not to devour him on the spot. 

Dean takes the rest of the week off so they can begin cleaning out the kitchen, upstairs bedrooms, and bathrooms. Sweeping floors, dusting surfaces, carrying out what Castiel doesn’t want to keep either to dump or donate to Singer’s Salvage or the local second-hand store. It’s hard, exhausting, rewarding work, watching the results of his efforts play out in realtime. Slowly but surely, the insect and animal dander ( _rats,_ he shudders, hoping Claire’s pending presence will keep them at bay) is cleared away, the accumulated grit and grime of neglect scrubbed. He's never felt like this from his job. This relief, this sense of accomplishment at the end of the day. A steady glow blossoms within him; it speaks of promise. The future.

Castiel learns early on that Dean has an aversion to germs bordering on the extreme, but is stubborn and strong-willed enough to roll his sleeves up and do the work regardless (though not without profuse complaint). Castiel rolls his eyes, exasperated but affectionate, and sympathetically hands Dean the yellow rubber gloves he picked up at the general store. Afterward, he offers to take on the worst tasks, an action which garners him a soft, appreciative (if embarrassed) smile that tunnels into his chest, imprinting itself on his memory. Filing that expression away for the difficult moments, he ducks his head and finds his own lips responding in kind. The longing to earn them more frequently grows against his will.

Castiel refuses to claim the downstairs master, discomforted by the idea of sharing the space with the ghosts of grandparents he’d never met, of lying alone in the dark under the weight of their memories. A history unbeknownst to him, elusive, daunting, yet intriguing nonetheless. There are times when it’s painful just being _in_ the house. Touching things. Looking at a past not his own. He finds himself drifting, wallowing, every so often, longing for people that were never his to know, wondering how different his life would have been had they still been alive. Daydreaming about a childhood he never had.

Playing in the once-flourishing garden out back with said grandparents watching from the porch as they sipped sweet tea under the shade, gentle grins upon foreign faces he’s only ever seen in yellowed, aging photographs. Getting grass stains on his knees from wrestling in the yard, jumping out of the hayloft in the barn onto fresh bales below despite all Father’s warnings not to. Chasing Gabriel through the house’s halls, stifling giggles when Michael barreled past their hiding spots unaware. Whispering secrets in each others’ ears as they curled together beneath a blanket fort at night with no one the wiser. Waking inside said fort to the smell of blueberry pancakes. A kind-voiced mother in the kitchen greeting them, hair haloed in morning sunlight from the window, with sweet smiles and loving touches when they finally stumbled downstairs bleary-eyed, stomachs grumbling insistently.

But no, that wasn’t Castiel’s life.

Instead, he had a strict, stoic governess to rule over his and his brothers’ every move. {Naomi, he remembers. She’d once told him he “came off the line with a crack in his chassis”. Didn’t know what that meant at the time, but it burrowed deep and stayed with him regardless. To this day, he hates her for it.) Posture eternally stiff, the bun in her hair pulled tight against her crown, eyes like steel. There were daily schedules set that he nearly always violated because he woke each morning, pouted sleepily through bland, unsatisfying breakfasts, and dragged his feet to the car for school. And worst of all, a distant, mysterious father he only saw on holidays or during company parties he dragged the boys to for appearance's sake (where even the slightest hint of bad behavior was later severely punished), and rarely in the late, late evenings when Castiel was supposed to be asleep. 

He’d find Shurley senior sitting in his favorite wingback chair in his study, a glass of bourbon in one hand and framed picture of Castiel’s mother in the other. Not once did he make his presence known, though in all likelihood, the man sensed him there. No, on those nights, he’d watch and wait until his heart could no longer take it. Then slip away on quiet, socked feet, curl up in his dark, lonely bed, and cry for a woman he never knew and a father just beyond his reach. His only saving grace back then was Gabriel, who’d sneak in like he could sense Castiel’s pain without words. The elder boy would wrap his arms around him and card fingers through his hair until, sniffling into his pillow, he’d finally drift off to a blessedly dreamless sleep.

The boarding school didn’t improve his situation, either. Perhaps less isolated, since he went from living in large and nearly empty mansions wherever they’d moved to that year (save for his siblings and the few staff hired to maintain them) to dormitories, shared rooms, and crowded hallways. He made a few friends, excelled academically and in select sports and extracurricular activities, and got along well enough with his teachers. But it put distance between him and Gabe that neither of them adjusted particularly well to, fanning the flames of loneliness already existing within Castiel’s heart. Told him no matter what he attempted, there’d always be something lacking, some missing piece pulling at a thread in his mind, unraveling the quilt no matter how many pieces he added to it to blanket his feelings of inadequacy, of failure, of emptiness.

Yet now, Dean is here to drag him out of it, even if he doesn’t realize he’s doing so. With a gentle touch on the small of his back, or a firm hand on his shoulder, a playful hip-check as they work side-by-side, or a few moments respite on the back patio sharing the refreshing cold lemonade Dean brings him, he’s pulled back to the present each time. They wipe the dirt from windows, open them, and let sunlight and fresh air fill the formerly dark, musty spaces to clear away the remnants of those strangers’ pasts. Little by little, he starts to see the potential again. The home it might one day be. And little by little, he wonders if it really could be _his_. If he’s even worthy of it. If Dean will stay and share it with him.

Because somehow, Castiel thinks it won’t feel like much of a home without Dean.

Friday, Dean drags Castiel to Sioux Falls in the beautiful Impala he'd seen that first night at the diner, affectionately dubbed _Baby_.

They enjoy a quick lunch in the city, and Castiel purchases some supplies from Dean’s list. During the return trip, on a quick stop for a restroom break, snacks, and drinks, Castiel exits the gas station to find Dean behind the car. He’s filling her (not "it", Dean was very insistent about that) up, eyes glued to the numbers ticking by on the pump, but something is noticeably off. Dean's on the phone, shoulders hunched, posture rigid. From the brief glimpse Castiel gets, his face is screwed into a frustrated scowl. Hesitantly, he moves toward his new friend and strains to catch what’s being said.

“Dude, no. It’s not like that.” Castiel inches closer, watching Dean listen to the muffled voice on the other end of the line as he removes the nozzle from the filler neck and refits it into place beside the pump. “Fine. Don’t make it weird, though,” Dean says shortly, pinching the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. He shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah. See ya. Bitch.” 

Castiel stiffens. Someone has upset Dean, and the thought doesn’t sit well. Worms deep into his gut and clenches his fists at his sides. Castiel isn’t one to seek out a fight, but he’s never backed down from one, either. He wants to know who this person is and where they are, the logical part of his mind saying _it’s none of your business_ having lost the battle before it’s even begun.

Dean turns, shoving the phone into his pocket, and jolts when he finds Castiel standing directly behind him. “Jesus, Cas! We need to get you a damn bell.”

“What’s wrong, Dean? Who is a ‘bitch’?” 

“What? No—uh, Sam.” A peculiar flush darkens the apples of his cheeks, but he doesn’t appear to be lying. “It’s just a thing we”—he shakes his head, expression now somewhat fond—“nevermind. You ready to hit the road?”

Dean turns up the music in the cab as they set out. It’s tense for a while, quieter than before that call, leaving Castiel to stare out the window most of the drive lost in contemplation. An unspoken question lingers in the air between them, made thick with uncertainty. He’s tempted to prod, ask Dean what’s going on, but senses he wouldn’t take it well. Better to let Dean come forward on his own terms when he’s ready.

So Castiel swallows thickly around the words, rests his head against the window. Breath gently fogging the cool glass, he lets his eyes slide shut and consciousness fade. 

* * *

Sammy insisted over the phone on meeting them back at Bobby’s place to help with the move, but Dean suspects (correctly) that the gesture has more to do with curiosity about Cas than simple goodwill.

They’re outside at Singer’s Salvage now, standing between the rows of hollowed-out metal and plastic vehicle husks. Dean leans against a stack, watching Sam pace a few feet away. Arms spread, shooting him one of his signature bitchfaces. Brow scrunched, eyes squinted, lips pursed. A look skirting the line between worried and annoyed, one that tells him Sam ain’t buying whatever he’s selling.

He’s less than pleased to hear Dean is moving in with a stranger, and as such, for every pro Dean dishes out, his brother weighs the cons. 

“It’s not a big deal, Sam. I’m a grown-ass man, I can live wherever the hell I want.”

“If you wanted to move out so bad, why didn't you say so before? You could stay with me and Jess! We have an extra room—”

“In that tiny duplex you're splitting with Charlie and Jo? Pshh, yeah, right. Don't take this the wrong way man, but it’s barely big enough for the two of you and that extra room is s’posed to be your office till you get settled. Besides, I ain’t too keen on sharing a place with you and your girl. There are some things I never wanna hear _or_ see.” He emphasizes his point with an exaggerated shudder.

Truth be told, he expected the same fight from the rest of the family, too. Yet Ellen grudgingly accepted after he assured her it was what he wanted, that he was excited about the opportunity and it had nothing to do with wanting to leave _them_. She understood his need to get out and be his own man, and made it clear that he always had a home to come back to if the need arose. With a few proud but stubbornly unshed tears and quick hug from her after, that was that.

With Bobby it went much the same. He’d said simply, “‘Bout time, idjit,” with a blunt, gruff voice but twinkling eyes that told Dean they were good and Bobby was happy for him. 

Thankfully, he brought it up to Jo separately during one of her shifts at the Roadhouse. Because the first thing out of her mouth, if said in front of Ellen and Bobby, would have made Dean spontaneously combust on the spot from the sheer magnitude of his humiliation.

On top of that, Charlie had been there soaking up the whole thing between fits of giggles and demands to meet the elusive “blue-eyed angel” (as Dean had unknowingly called him during his previous stupor at the same bar. Jesus, he’s a dumbass). He told them both to shut their traps and grumbled the rest of his disputes into a tepid, slightly stale lager. 

Unfortunately, Sam’s not taking it near as well as the others. He huffs, “But you just met him, Dean. You don’t know the first thing about the guy! What if he’s a wack job, or a pervert? What if—”

“Hey. Stop.” Dean shakes his head and steps forward, pointing at his brother with raised eyebrows. “First off, you watch way too many true crime specials. Second, I can take care of myself.” Sam scowls. “Look, I get it, man. I’d probably give you the same speech if our roles were reversed here. But Cas… he’s a good guy.” He pauses, knowing it’s probably playing dirty to pull his trump card. He does it anyway, adding, “You trust me, right Sammy?”

Sam’s shoulders sag as he shoves his hands into his jacket and stares at his boot scuffing against the ground. He looks so damn young in that moment, nostalgia hits Dean like a tsunami. Takes him back to the day (age nine or ten if he’s remembering it right) he’d come back from a store not far from their seedy motel at the border between Missouri and Arkansas. 

Dad was workin’ a job and had left the two of them for going on two weeks. Didn’t take long for them to run out of the basics, and Dean had spent their last dollar on a fountain soda because his brother needed the carbs and sugar and it was the best he could do at the time.

By the end of the following day, though, both their stomachs were growling and Sammy was sitting up on the bed, quiet but clutching his stomach, fighting back tears and trying so hard to be strong. To be a good boy. 

Dean couldn’t fucking take it anymore. 

So he’d put on a movie, pet his brother’s shaggy hair for a minute and told him “be right back,” before jogging to the store and jacking what little he could stuff into his oversized coat. Anxiously looking over his shoulder the whole way, he made it back with a box of macaroni, two cans of tuna, and a Snickers bar. Kid lit up like it was Christmas friggin’ morning.

That was the first time Dean had ever stolen, and wouldn’t be the last. Wouldn’t be the last of many illegal activities he did to put food in their bellies, clothes on their backs, or keep a roof over their heads, and though those days are far behind him the lesson stuck.

John had made it clear after their mom died that taking care of his little brother was Dean’s purpose in life. His job. His mission. Fair or not, Dean knows he woulda taken on the responsibility anyway because that’s… that’s just what you do for family. More often than not, Dean and Sam were all each other had anyway.

But something about that day specifically had hit home, made poignant just how young, how precious his brother was to him. How he’d do anything, _anything_ to take care of him. And here Sam is now, grown but still a boy, worrying about _him_. It makes his heart _ache_.

“Of course I do. With my life, Dean, you know that,” Sam mumbles, cheeks tinged pink.

Dean’s not sure if he should be relieved or ashamed. In truth, he’s a little of both. But he needs Sam to give this a chance; not just Cas, either, but the whole plan. Because regardless of whatever happens with Cas, if he stays or goes, the house is on the line and with that comes a whole chunk of dreams Dean’s forged since he was young. Not only for his sake, but for Sam’s, too.

Sure, kid’s got his own thing going. A fiance, a fancy degree, a career in the works. All Dean’s hard work has paid off before his very eyes. But now it’s up to him to show his brother that he’s okay too. He _has_ to do this. 

And really, if he’s gonna have a house, he’s wanted it to be this one for a long ass time. 

It struck him from the first day he went with Bobby to work on it—he must have been about sixteen at the time. He and Sam had been put to work cleaning inside while Bobby took the tractor around to mow, but Dean probably wasted half the day wandering around and daydreaming. It felt wrong, letting something so unassumingly charming and beautiful sit abandoned, left to rot. Just a shell of what it could be.

That nagging part of Dean that always wants to fix things, to make shit right (mixed with the pent up longing for a place of his own) brimmed with the possibilities. With the right touch, it could be a home again. Could be _his._

“I want to do this, man.” He’s never been an ace at the puppy eyes, not like his brother is, but he gives it his best shot anyway.

Sam groans. “Okay, okay. Enough with the look.”

“Plus”—Dean claps his hands and rubs them together excitedly—“anything goes sideways and I’ve got a hotshot lawyer in the family to back me up!” 

“Uh-huh. You gonna introduce me to Castiel now or what? I won’t feel comfortable with this till I get a read on him myself.”

“I’m telling you, he’s cool. Quiet, sweet, kinda nerdy. Which, hey, means you’ll get along great!”

That earns him a playful punch to the shoulder, and it seems to lighten Sam’s mood. They wind their way through the jungle of steel and iron, the organization of which to anyone but Bobby himself would appear haphazard and chaotic, back up to the house.

They find Cas in Bobby’s office-slash-library (though there are more books piled on the floor and desk that in actual shelves), poring over an ancient-looking tome. Bobby’s hovering over his shoulder, pointing to something on the page, giving brief monosyllabic answers to whatever Cas is asking. It’s rare to see Bobby engage with a stranger at all, much less being friendly, and Dean is pleasantly surprised.

Bobby notices them come in and pats Cas on the shoulder. Cas’ eyes brighten immediately upon seeing Dean which gives him a warm, funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“Heya.” Dean gives a short wave. “Sam, this is Cas. Cas, my brother Sam.”

Cas carefully closes the book, treating it like it’s something precious, and sets it beside him on the couch before rising. He strides confidently toward Sam, doesn’t even seem at all put off by his enormous height, and holds out his hand.

“Castiel Shurley. I’ve heard so much about you, Sam.” It’s a little weird, in that he doesn’t smile with his mouth but somehow does with his eyes. 

“All embarrassing things, I’m sure.” Sam chuckles as he shakes Cas’ hand, obviously taking stock of the man, and Dean notes his brother’s grip is unnecessarily tight.

He glares at Sam from the side of his eye, wordlessly warning him to cool it, but Cas doesn’t so much as wince. Even seems to match Sam’s strength, which is entirely unexpected and… all manner of hot. Bobby just watches the exchange, arms crossed and clearly amused.

“Not at all.” Cas does that cute little head tilt, then looks at Dean. “Dean speaks very highly of you.” 

Sam glances between them both for an oddly long, scrutinizing moment before letting the guy’s hand go and busting out a giant grin. “That so?”

“Indeed.” Cas nods eagerly. “Dean told me all about your full ride to Stanford. Said you recently passed the bar and have gotten engaged, as well. He is very proud of you.”

“Alright, alright. ‘Nuff of that,” Dean says. “No chick-flick moments.” He rubs the back of his neck, fighting against the blush he can feel burning there. 

Sam ignores him, positively beaming now. “He had a _lot_ to say about you, too,” he smoothly replies, and okay, _nope_ , Dean’s not letting _this_ conversation go any further. He elbows his brother hard in the ribs and jerks his head toward the hallway.

“Come on, Sasquatch. You gonna help me lug this stuff to the truck or what?”

Cas squints, frozen in place as they walk away, and Dean hopes he doesn’t ask Sam to explain. A minute later, though, he follows them down to his bedroom and offers to help. Dean’s not about to turn down some extra arms (especially not if it means he gets to see Cas do some heavy lifting, find out how strong the guy really is) so he agrees and gives him instructions on what to take or leave. He only has a little packed, so Sam and Cas start on the furniture while he finishes filling up the boxes Ellen left for him. 

So _maybe_ Sam catches him watching Cas squat down to lift the other end of the bed. His eyebrows shoot into his hairline and he gives Dean a look that says “really?”

Dean just smirks and shrugs at his brother, mouthing, “so sue me”, which has been a running joke of his ever since Sammy started law school. Totally worth the bitchface it earns him, every time (and so is Cas’ firm, perfect ass in those jeans).

* * *

Saturday morning, Dean picks Cas up at Eden Lodge as he checks out. It’s the first day they’ll officially be under one roof, and Dean prepared by spending way too long in front of the stupid mirror despite knowing he’s just gonna get dirtied up again in a few hours.

Soon as they arrive, Cas cordons Claire off in an upstairs bedroom with food and toys so she won’t be underfoot. Cas is easy to get along with, which settles any lingering nerves he has over the prospect of living together, however temporarily. His sense of humor is dry as a damn desert, and it’s harder to get a chuckle out of the guy than anyone Dean’s ever met ‘cause he either finds his puns absurd or doesn't get them to start with, but Dean kinda likes it. Adds to the challenge. 

It seems every trip they’ve made to the house so far, the list has grown, but he reassures Cas repeatedly that they’re simple enough fixes so long as they have the materials. They drift around each other in amiable contentment, slowly working over each room, detailing and planning out the remaining work to be done between light conversation and Dean’s occasional wisecracks. 

Peeling, crumbling wallpaper coating the house begs to be scraped and the walls painted. The cabinets in the kitchen and bathroom require their own coats, and probably new countertops and hardware to match. All the mattresses have acquired mildew and must be replaced (plus, who the fuck wants to sleep on someone else's dirty old mattress, gross), along with the appliances.

The hardwood floors are in excellent condition, though they could probably use a fresh stain and polish. Most of the furnishings left behind are salvageable, built to last, though several need refinishing or new upholstery. There's no central air, and the heating system has to be updated, preferably before the season changes.

By his final tally, they have functional electricity, internet, working plumbing, shelter (obviously) and little else. But Dean’s had worse, and if he’s honest the excitement of the project keeps his spirits up. Long as they don’t encounter anything major like foundation issues, a bad roof, asbestos or black mold, it should only take a couple months to get the house in peak condition again.

It’s not until the sun slips below the horizon under a rapidly darkening sky that it hits him—

Cas has nowhere to sleep.

Within minutes of broaching the subject, Castiel is pouting indignantly, arms crossed, and Dean’s wavering between amused and frustrated at Cas’ insistence that he can sleep anywhere and it doesn’t matter. “Dude, you are _not_ sleeping on the couch in your own house.”

“It’s only for a couple of weeks, Dean. I don’t mind.” 

The reminder that his new friend's time there is limited twists something beneath his ribs, and it’s a feeling he’d rather not dwell on right now. _Everyone leaves._ “Well I mind!” he argues, arms folding over his chest to mimic the other man’s defensive posture. “You’re taking my bed.”

Though the thought of Cas sleeping in Dean’s bed has crossed his mind more than once in the last few days, it’s usually with the hope of an entirely different scenario.

Jaw falling slack with disbelief, Cas stammers, “Wh-what?”

“ _Cas_. Not taking no for an answer here, pal.” 

Wiping a forearm across his sweat and dust-layered brow, Cas stares down at the floor with a face that says he’s not new to being scolded and clearly hates it. Dean flaps a dismissive hand in the air, waving away any potential argument Cas has left.

“Look, we’ve been cleaning for hours. I’m gonna go pick us up some dinner. Just uh, chill out for a while and go get cleaned up. ‘Kay?”

Cas finally looks at him, scowling. “Fine.” Even when he’s being kinda pissy, he’s fucking adorable. He pivots on his heel, prepared to stalk toward the stairs, but stops suddenly and glances over his shoulder. “Bring drinks, too.”

A barely concealed shudder rolls down Dean’s spine at the low, authoritative tone. He looks away, hoping the other man doesn’t notice just how affected he is, and briefly wonders if Cas is always so bossy. If so, they might end up butting heads more than he thought. Although it’s incredibly hot, if anyone’s gonna be the stubborn bastard in this house, it’s him. Cas will just have to learn to deal with it.

He watches Cas stomp up the stairs (for lack of a better term, ‘cause he’s pretty sure each step is landing just on the hard side, at least more than is necessary). Rolling his eyes, he grabs his wallet and heads into town.

Doesn’t realize until he gets there that he didn’t bother asking Cas what kind of pizza he likes, but knows he isn't a vegetarian (thank God) so he ends up ordering two; classic pepperoni and cheese, and one with all the meats because hell, he’s earned the right to splurge a little after such a busy week.

Upon arriving back at the house, he tosses the boxes onto the extended bar top counter separating the kitchen from the living room and shouts for Cas to get his ass downstairs. Only silence greets him.

Half peeved and half worried, he toes off his boots and hangs his jacket in the small closet in the foyer before wandering to the second floor. It’s not until he reaches the top that he hears the shower running and sighs with relief.

Hopefully, Cas has had enough time to cool off and will be more agreeable to his decision, because if he's being technical here, he’s not totally sure if the “fine” he got out of Cas earlier was about the bed situation or the promise of food. With that in mind and the vague demand for drinks, he brought whiskey and a six-pack of Margiekugels to placate him. 

He raps two knuckles on the door and calls, “Hey, Cas...”

Within moments the shower sputters off and he hears the curtain rattle to the side. He expects the guy to holler through the door. What Dean does not expect, whatsoever, is for Cas to immediately fling it open, giving Dean a full gust of hot, aromatic steam right to the face. 

Cas stands in the doorway, dripping wet and beautifully flushed. His damp hair’s spiked in forty different directions, piercing eyes narrowed, a towel slung loose and low around his _holy-fucking-hipbones don’t drool, Dean, don’t drool._ Droplets pool in the hollow of Cas’ gold-tanned throat before winding a path down his broad chest, past a— _is that a tattoo?_ on his right flank and into the sparse trail of hair leading from his navel to below the towel’s edge.

Dean swallows thickly, eyes darting up to catch the back end of Cas’ smirk as he nudges past him and into the hall. “Th-there’s, uh, p-pizza downstairs,” he stammers, watching Cas pad barefoot over the hardwood. 

_Fuck, don’t think about hard and wood in the same sentence right now._

Cas just hums in reply before stepping into the room next door, the one he’d claimed and housed Claire in earlier. Dean hovers at the threshold while Cas rummages through his suitcase. He glances up, catching Dean still fidgeting stupidly, and smiles softly this time. “Thank you, Dean. I’ll be down shortly.”

“Actually, I was, uh…” _Not a good idea, bad, very very bad, Dean don’t—_ “I was thinking maybe we could hang out in my room? I mean, since my TV is up here already, and I have Netflix… we can watch a movie or somethin’? If, uh, if that’s something you’d wanna do. You know. With me.”

There’s a flash behind the other man's eyes Dean can’t quite decipher from this distance. Did he overstep? They did hang out at the Lodge a few times, ate together, watched what little was on rotation with the motel’s crappy cable setup. But maybe he’s not comfortable doing it here? Or maybe he’s still pissed? Christ, first night in and he’s fucked it all up—

Before he has a chance to withdraw too far in his own anxious internal rambling, Cas’ smile grows even brighter. He pulls out a few items of clothing, tucks them beneath his arm and suddenly he’s in Dean’s personal space again within the space of a blink. Dean stumbles backward, bumping the hinge of the door with a surprised grunt. The doorway is a tight fit, bringing them close, _so close._

“That sounds nice, Dean. Why don’t you bring the food up while I”—he gestures to his body—“get dressed.”

That was the last thing Dean needed right now. An all-too effective reminder of Cas’ warm, toned, still wet body standing only inches from his own. It’s difficult, so damn difficult, to tear his eyes away from the gorgeous unblinking ocean of blue staring back at him. The plump, pink lips surrounded by what he suspects is permanent stubble. The sharp, glistening divot of Cas’ clavicle. And son of a bitch, he smells _amazing_.

Dean abruptly realizes his mouth is unbelievably dry and what he really wants to do right now is lick the remaining water from every inch—

“Dean?”

Blinking dazedly, his eyes dart back to Cas’ to find him squinting and looking concerned. Probably thinks Dean’s having a damn aneurysm, standing here with his mouth hanging open like an idiot.

He barks out a totally-failing-at-casual and way too loud laugh, suddenly looking at everything in the room besides Cas. The ceiling with a small water stain he really hopes isn’t from a leak in the roof but knows probably is. The empty mahogany bed frame in the center of the room. The matching armoire nestled between two windows on the right-hand side of the room. The ugly, faded and peeling floral wallpaper.

“Yeah, yeah okay. I’ll, uh—I’ll do… that. Right.”

He practically runs down the stairs.

* * *

Admittedly, there have been moments when Castiel questioned his early assumptions regarding Dean’s proclivities. To think that perhaps the attraction, the _pull_ he feels toward Dean is mutual, after all. 

More than once, he’s caught Dean staring at him when he thinks Castiel’s not looking. At first, he figured it was possible said staring had nothing to do with Dean finding his physical appearance enticing. For all he knew, he could be little more than an interesting specimen to Dean, no different from a butterfly pinned to a corkboard. Relying on “gaydar”, as Balthazar calls it, is dubious at best and dangerous at worst, so Castiel’s always erred on the side of caution. And even then, if his suspicion proved correct, there would still be the issue of whether or not Dean is out. The intense machismo the man exhibits, what with the clothing and muscle car and attitude, screams overcompensation and performative masculinity.

But the way Dean looked at him earlier this evening... no one has looked at Castiel with that sort of open, absolute _hunger_ in a very long time, if ever. It’s giving him some very bad ideas.

He settles on the bed against the pillows as Dean sets up a movie on his modest flatscreen. Something about cowboys and tuberculosis, which intrigues Castiel not in the least but Dean was both incredulous that he had never seen it and adamant that it’s a classic and, therefore, required. They binge on pizza until full and content, and as he sucks the last bit of sauce and oil from his fingers he sags, sighing and heavy-limbed, into the memory foam. He realizes now that he’s sated and moderately tipsy it's going to be that much more difficult to refuse Dean’s prior offer. He’s already on the bed, after all, and the couch is… so very far away.

At least he _should_ be exhausted, and for the most part, his body is for all the work they’d done earlier that day. That’s the excuse he’s allowing himself for not wanting to leave. But truthfully, Dean’s warmth is mere inches away, their shoulders almost touching, and that fact alone is like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart for how awake and aware it makes him. 

To make matters worse...

It’s a fucking sin the way Dean drinks a beer. His tongue flicks out, catching the frothy liquid as it trickles toward the rim. Slowly, tortuously, his perfect lips wrap around it, just at the edge. He tips it back and takes a long, smooth pull. Castiel’s eyes glue to Dean’s throat as he swallows it down, then drift back up to see Dean lick the traces of foam from his plush bottom lip. The bottle remains in his hand, balanced on Dean’s stomach just above the edge of his belt.

Never has he been so jealous of an inanimate object.

He watches the shift of movement as Dean crosses his ankles, weaves one arm behind his head, and slumps into a more comfortable position. Imagines himself yanking the bottle away, tossing it across the room, mess be damned. Straddling Dean’s lap, grinding against him, licking into his delicious pink mouth. Running his fingers through Dean’s short hair, getting close enough to finally determine if it’s truly brown or a dark, dirty blond. Maybe tugging it a little, just to see if Dean likes it. To hear what noises he’ll make.

Instead, Castiel lifts his knee, planting the foot closest to Dean against the mattress in a weak effort to block the little bit of chub he’s sporting from Dean’s view (which is remarkably difficult to do in thin cotton pajamas, by the way). He twists to grab his own beer from the nightstand on his side, left arm reaching across his body. Cool air hits the skin of his exposed hip where the shirt rides up, but with his stifling internal humidity, it comes as a relief more than a bother. He flops back and guzzles the neck, releasing a long sigh as the refreshing liquid washes through him, and attempts resolutely to focus on the TV, let the alcohol work its magic.

Thumbing the bottle, he twirls it a little on the bed beside him. Runs his fingers down its side to catch the condensation, then grips it fully and takes another long pull. It’s only by chance that he catches movement in his periphery as he drinks. Dean’s holding his beer over his lap now with both hands, arms stiff, even as he stares straight ahead at the movie. Castiel frowns.

“Dean?”

Dean flinches. _Strange._ “Yeah?”

His voice is abnormally breathy, which Castiel chalks up to the alcohol. But it does his dick no favors, judging by the valiant twitch it gives beneath the fabric of his pants. He’d love nothing more than to hear that word uttered in an entirely different context. Repeatedly.

“Thank you.”

Finally, Dean looks at him, genuine surprise painting his features. “For what?”

_God, he’s beautiful._

He holds Dean's gaze as though he can will all his thoughts and desires into the air between them and make them stick. After a long pause, he says, “For—” _Everything_. “—tonight. Dinner. You didn’t have to do that, so, thank you.”

That earns him a smile. It’s a small, shy thing, though, accompanied by a slight side-nod and hand wave. Like Dean’s not used to hearing it and wants to brush the sentiment away. It makes Castiel a little sad, though he doesn’t know why. 

“Don’t mention it, buddy.” He clears his throat. “So uh, how about a real drink? I was sorta saving it for after the pizza.”

Castiel grins and finds he means it. “Absolutely.”

Dean laughs. It’s a full-bodied thing, rumbling straight from his belly and shaking his shoulders. It’s such a lovely, warm, invigorating sound that Castiel wishes he could bottle it, make it a tangible thing, hold it close.

Quickly as the idea comes, a sharp sting follows. It’s not his place to want such things. Yes, he _really_ needs that drink now. If nothing more than to slow this train of thought, or better yet, shut it down entirely.

Castiel takes a final pull from his beer, setting the empty bottle back on the nightstand as he swings his legs over the bed and stands. Stretching languidly, he twists his arms first over his head, then again behind his back, listening to the cracks and pops of his neck and spine before shaking his limbs loose again with a relieved groan. He glances over his shoulder just as Dean looks away, busying himself with pouring a finger of Jim Beam into two cups. Dean hands him his, in a Batman coffee mug of all things.

Castiel arches a brow and smirks as he turns it in his hand. “Really?”

Still not meeting his eyes, Dean says, “You complainin'?” 

He chuckles. “Not at all. I think it’s… cute.” The cup hovers beneath his nose, hiding his cheeky smile, but before Dean can respond he gulps it down and shoves his cup back into Dean’s hand.

“Batman’s not _cute_ ,” Dean mutters. “He's badass.” Knocking his shot back, Dean grimaces mildly from the sting. “Anyway, I don't, uh—I don't have any regular glasses.”

Castiel nods, relaxing on the bed again. “We'll just have to buy some, then.” It doesn't hit him at first, what the phrase implies. He's surprised to find that instead of shooting off a snarky retort, Dean is wearing a huge, eager grin.

“Oh, ho! That mean you're stayin'?” Dean offers him the refilled cup and sets the bottle on the nightstand by his side of the bed.

“I don't know...” Heat rises to his cheeks. “Perhaps.” It comes out sounding a lot more like a question than he intended, the answer to which is lost somewhere in the air between them.

Try as he might for the next hour, he can’t for the life of him pay attention to the movie plot. He's far too lost in his head and Dean’s presence to care about the increasingly blurry picture a few feet away. Thankfully, Dean is plenty happy to ramble commentary throughout as they trade laughs and drink themselves into a pleasantly fuzzy stupor. Much different from the last time he’d been _this_ inebriated, the day of his father’s— Well, suffice it to say, Castiel is filled with joy and satisfaction rather than regret and nostalgia, and that’s what matters. He can’t remember the last time anyone made him feel this comfortable and welcome, so for now, he allows himself to bask in the sensations.

When the credits finally roll, Dean’s slumped over in the bed, head lolled onto Castiel's shoulder, chest slowly falling and rising with the heaviness of sleep. Even if he had the wherewithal or stamina to carry all six-some-odd feet of him downstairs to the couch, a situation which he still had positively not agreed to, Castiel’s motivation now is severely lacking. 

“Dean?” he whispers. Not even a flinch.

The temptation is too great, and he finds he can’t bring himself to care as his hand finds its way into Dean’s hair. God, and it’s so much softer than it looks. Whatever gel Dean used that morning has long since weakened, so his fingers smooth through the strands with ease. He scratches gently at his scalp and the man lets out a pleased hum, nuzzling closer. Dean’s breath ghosts over his neck, eyelashes fluttering against his skin as Dean stirs. A large, warm palm finds its way onto Castiel’s thigh.

His entire body freezes, a sudden flare of sobriety crashing into his brain with the force of a sledgehammer. 

_Not good. If Dean wakes up like this… Fuck._

He eases Dean to the side and props him against the headboard and pillows before lurching to his feet. The world swims a little, but he manages to right himself enough to navigate around the bed. He doubts Dean would appreciate the removal of any further clothing, and he’d long since discarded his boots, belt, and overshirt, so Castiel opts to leave him in his jeans and tee. All that remains then is for him to very, very carefully pull the duvet out from beneath Dean and finagle him back over to his side of the bed, flat on his back, head on the pillows.

After a brief internal debate, Castiel flicks off the lamp, crawls into the empty space beside him, covers them both, and lies down facing the sleeping man. The barest hint of moonlight filters in through one of the windows, casting over Dean’s peaceful profile and his heart clenches almost painfully and the sight.

Fuck, he _wants_. Wants so badly to close the gap between them, cup the other man’s face in his palms and count the endless constellation of freckles sprinkled across his skin.

Lust... lust Castiel can deal with. He understands it. These other feelings Dean brings up, however, are perilous in their novelty. He’s treading water here, barely keeping his head above the surface, exhaustion seeping into his limbs and lungs. Then the memories of Dean looking at him with those sparkling eyes and roguish grin arise, and clutching white-knuckled fingers in the pillow beside his cheek is all he can do to stay tethered, focused, present.

Maybe it's the bourbon talking, or maybe this has been flourishing from the moment they met, but he _wants_ to let go, slip under.

_If there’s anyone in this world, in this universe, worth drowning for... it’s Dean Winchester._

Why he believes that with every atom, every molecule making up his meager existence, why he feels it down in his marrow, he hasn’t a clue. He'd give this man the moon and stars on a silver platter if it were within his power. Even if it terrifies him, he’s never been more certain of anything in his life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Mention of past child neglect/abuse (by John)  
> 
> 
>   
>  Sorry for the time between my last update and now. Been runnin' low on spoons and I wanted to make sure this chapter was perfect for y'all before I put it out there. 
> 
>   
>  I must thank the brilliant, lovely [dothraki_shieldmaiden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden/works) and of course, my bff and supremely talented [lostinfantasies38](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostinfantasies38/pseuds/Lostinfantasies38/works) for looking over this chapter for me. For their endless support and validation, I am eternally grateful. 
> 
> Alrighty, enough of the chick-flick stuff. As the plant from Little Shop of Horrors says, "Feed me!"... your comments. They give me life. Thanks, loves <3 Hope you are all staying safe and healthy in these trying times!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check end notes for content warnings (potential spoilers).

This is his own personal Heaven; a perfect two-lane strip of rain-damp asphalt stretched far into the horizon. It’s so still, so quiet. Soothing. His head tilts back, exposing the long, bare line of his neck to the breeze. Rotating gently, he cracks it and groans with relief.

He feels every inch of his body so starkly in these moments. Denim bunching around the crevice where thigh meets pelvis, soft cotton and flannel around his shoulders, tepid South Dakota summer air rustling through the hair on his naked forearms.

His stomach flutters, the toes in his leather boots curl in anticipation. He lets out a breath and turns the key. Listens to his baby purr to life, echoing in the vast, beautiful silence.

The starry sky’s black as pitch above between the sparkling distant constellations, but Dean’s got all the light he needs from the ethereal silver-blue glow of the moon and sharp yellow glare of Baby’s headlights. Windows down, the only sound for miles chirping cicadas and rustling leaves, the aroma of petrichor and tar thick in the air, rock on the tape deck. This is all he needs, right here.

Or so he thinks.

More and more lately, he catches himself side-eyeing the empty passenger side. Used to be Sammy there, once upon a time, all gangly limbs and big hazel eyes. Used to be just the two of them out here on the open road, middle of the night, nothing better to do than cruise through beautiful countryside, waiting out whatever job Dad was on. Hoping he’d come back in one piece and maybe, just maybe, it’d be the last time. (It never was.)

Even later once they were left with Bobby (who, at the time, was a year off from marrying Ellen, the two of them stuck in some weird, stubborn back and forth) it took a long time to feel like they belonged. So Dean and Sam still went on their midnight cruises, finding comfort in the familiar leather seats of the closest thing they’d ever had to a home and each others’ company. Stuck to each other like glue because the fear permeated every thought, every little thing they did, that one of these days Bobby would leave them too. Kick them out. Give up.

 _Something_.

He never did. And Dean fucking loves him for it. Damned if he’ll tell him so with words, he’s never been good at that shit, but he hopes every second of every day the man knows it from Dean’s actions because—

Bobby occupies the passenger seat. He hides his grin so well under that beard, but Dean sees it all the same. He grins back, wide and bright, and turns the stereo up. Zeppelin—his favorite. _Hell yeah._

“Heard from our boy lately?” Bobby’s voice is rough but affectionate, somehow clear as crystal over the music.

“Yup. Said he met a girl.”

Bobby’s expression is fond. He shakes his head, bright shafts of sunlight dancing across the brim of his ball cap and into Dean’s eyes. When did it become day? How long has he been driving? Time is distorted here, minutes blending into hours, days, weeks. Like a distant mirage, flickering and blurring at the edges of his vision.

He shakes it off, rolling his shoulders.

“And you?”

Frowning, he asks, “What do you mean?”

“When are you gonna get out there?”

“Eh." He smirks. “Don’t worry about me, old man. I’m good.”

“Used to think the same thing, myself.”

“You got Ellen, though.”

Bobby grunts, not unkindly. “Yeah, once I pulled my head outta my ass. Your turn, kid.”

“I said I’m good. Got you guys, and Sammy. That’s all I need.”

“We both know that’s bull, boy.”

His body tenses, face pulling into a scowl. When he glances to the side, Bobby’s already gone. And when did he turn the music off?

_What the fuck?_

Dean looks over again and does a double-take. He’d know that face anywhere. Heart-shaped, framed by thick, dark curls. Cassie’s brown doe eyes turn on him, filled with frustration, maybe regret. They’d dated for a couple weeks their senior year of high school and split not long before he dropped out. She graduated and moved away. Last he heard, she was a journalist down in Chicago or some shit. But here beside him, she looks just the same as he remembers.

His vision muddies, quivering at the corners. He flashes his most charming smile, hoping it hides his disorientation. “Hey there, gorgeous,” he says with an exaggerated wink.

“Seems you haven’t changed.”

“Wanna pull over and have some fun? Backseat’s awful roomy.”

“Really?” She rolls her eyes. “Can we not?”

“Whatever.” His eyes flick to the driver-side window, watching the scenery go by. A blur of fields, endless green. Pretty in its way, but lacking… something. Empty, kinda like him inside. A self-deprecating snicker puffs through his lips. “Strictly business, then.”

“I forgot you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Whenever we get, what’s the word… close? Anywhere in the neighborhood of emotional vulnerability, you back off. Or make some joke—”

Dean bristles, offended. Not this again. “Oh, that’s hilarious.”

 _Pot calling the kettle_ , he thinks, though even subconsciously he knows that’s half bullshit. The road ahead, Baby, these are his comfort spaces. Here, he’s supposed to be okay. Able to forget all the other crap, and just _be_. Present, in the moment, content. But he can’t even have that, can he? Past always comes back to haunt him eventually.

“I might chase stories for a living Dean, but if you wanted out you could have saved yours. Told me the truth.”

Son of a bitch, this is the last damn thing he wants to hear right now. “Well I didn’t—”

“ _You_ want to know the truth?” says a different, equally familiar voice. He winces hard, grimacing. Panic bubbles up in his chest.

_No, man, not Lisa. Come the fuck on._

His palms feel slick against the wheel. He won’t look at her. Can’t. “Probably not.” He wonders impassively how bad it’d hurt to throw the door open right now, tuck and roll down the pavement. Not that he’d ever abandon Baby, but in this moment escape is preferable to reliving this confrontation and reopening old wounds.

“You’ve got so much buried in there. You push it down, and push it down—”

“Hey, you knew what you signed up for,” he grits out, rage and pain and fear swirling with the panic. It’s too much. Cloying, clawing, fucking terrifying but his foot’s stuck on the gas and he can’t let up.

“Do you honestly think you can go through life like that, Dean? Just—what? Drink half a fifth a night and you’re good?”

No other cars in sight, no twists or turns in the road, the path is straight and clear yet that former comfort has been replaced by dread for it lacking a _destination_. There’s a tear on his cheek. It’s hot, wet, dragging a slow and tortuous trail through stubble all the way to the edge of his jaw. As clear to him as every other sense here, but somehow more—

“Look, I know I’ve got problems, but you—”

“I can’t be in this with you,” she says, soft and honest and so goddamn heartbreaking. “I’m sorry.”

With that, she’s gone.

Scrubbing the wetness from his cheek with a low growl, he shoves everything down, down. Watches as the sky slips into violet dusk, a cumulonimbus cluster forming above the road ahead. Thunder rolls, its echo oddly muffled, muted by the flat expanse of nature stretched around him. Sharp, biting notes of ozone fill the air. Anticipating rain, he rolls the window up just in time for the first few splatters on the windshield. His view obscured, he flips on the wipers and slouches in his seat.

He fights to relax, to slide back into his formerly tranquil state, though the faint unease lingers, buzzing under his skin like an itch that can’t be scratched. Pushing it away, his mind drifts. A part and apart, floating, physical sensation dulls and he fixates on those noises, lets them anchor him to this moment in time and space and hopes the water outside can somehow wash away the pain and guilt, scrub him clean.

It’s soothing and nostalgic, the steady sound of it against glass and metal with the rhythmic _swoosh, swoosh, swoosh_ of the wiper blades vibrating through the hollow spaces between.

“...Like music,” Cas says, reflecting Dean’s own thoughts. He glances right. Cas sits opposite him on the bucket seat, and it feels as though Cas has… been there from the start. Or maybe it’s where he’s meant to be. It feels right, anyway. Comfortable.

“Yeah.”

They sit for a time, quiet, surrounded only by the gentle melodic patter and soft, even breaths, before Cas speaks again. “Do you like the rain, Dean?”

“Sometimes. You?”

“It’s nice like this. Listening to it, watching the way it changes and shapes the world outside, from the safety of shelter. Especially here, with you.”

He smiles. “Well when you put it that way, I like it even more.”

Cas hums, seemingly pleased by this answer. “I can think of one way to make it better.”

“Oh, yeah? How’s that?”

Cas slides across the seat toward him, body radiating heat. Pacifying and electrifying all at once, he craves _more_.

“Dean,” he murmurs, breath gentle against his ear. Skin prickling at the sensation, Dean shivers. Realizing the car’s stopped moving, his hands drop from the wheel to his sides. They fidget on the seat, impatient to reach out, pull Cas into his lap. “Is this okay?” With the first tender kiss to the hinge of his jaw, his eyes slip shut.

“Y-yeah,” he says, voice trembling.

Cas’ lips mark a path down his neck. “Tell me what you want, Dean.”

_You, stupid. I want you._

“Cas, I—” He gulps. _Screw it._ “Touch me?”

A hand rises to his waist, broad and warm. Soaks right through the cloth like it’s—like it’s not even there. He feels so heavy suddenly, but a nice heavy. Secure and safe. Sinking, sinking, a gentle, gratified noise rumbles from his throat and as he lays down, everything dims.

The rain and thunder fade and flicker out, the hand on gooseflesh-riddled skin his only remaining tether. Cas is the solidity against his side, his dream-mind supplies, and fuck if that doesn’t send another heady rush of _want_ flooding through him, and then the road, the car, they’re gone. He’s in a dark room, lying in a bed.

Gravity weighs strangely now, awareness pressing in around him and he starts, vertigo hitting as his brain fights to reconcile too many simultaneous discordant sensations. It’s tipping, evolving, and Dean’s left wavering in the gap, semi-lucid but not quite enough to make himself move or speak. The fog is still too strong, too soft and pleasant, a hazy glow of contentment unfurling in his chest. It won’t allow him to open his eyes because he doesn’t want this to end, not now that Cas is here.

Instead, he floats, pliant and blissfully subdued like driftwood on the sea. Lets himself hover here with a large, strong body resting beside him, moaning his name.

It’s an innate, primal response, the human need for proximity. For touch, warmth. It’s one he’s given into frequently but all too often disappointed because it’s never the closeness he craves.

It’s a quick fuck in the dirty bathroom stall of a dive bar; ankles locked behind his bare ass, painted nails scratching up his back, cloying perfume filling his lungs, cheap lipstick smearing on his neck. It’s him in a graffitied neon-lit alley at 2 a.m.; knees scraping wet gravel, lips swollen and dripping saliva, jaw aching, a rough hand clutching his hair while his own works between his thighs.

It’s never _this_.

It’s never gentle, dusky swaths of coral dawn winking through a slim gap in the curtains to caress his skin, the sweet susurrus of another’s steady breathing on his pillows. It’s never curled fingers tenderly massaging his scalp, sheltering arms slung around drowsy bodies, an aura of calm and safe and _right_ enveloping him like the world’s softest blanket.

Like in most of his recent fantasies, he sees Castiel beside him with perfect clarity. Not that he spends a ton of time staring at Cas or anything, memorizing each glorious feature (and if he does, well, nobody needs to know that but him). The perfect, straight patrician nose above plush, lightly chapped lips. The brilliant blue of his eyes, the way the lids slope gently at the corners when he squints. The way he smiles with them more than he does his mouth, which just makes Dean treasure the real grins that much more.

_Beautiful..._

Dean’s eyelids flutter, a soft sigh escapes his lips. Right now, he sees Cas lying flat, arm tucked protectively around him. Breathing softly, his shock of dark hair close enough to tickle his nose. He smells of earth and rain, similar to the dream, but different. It’s uniquely Cas, this scent, and Dean wishes he could wrap himself in it, burrow down, stay forever. There’s the mild tang of salt, sweat, beneath whatever soap he uses. Piney, little musky and masculine, but kinda sweet, too and he can almost— _almost—_ taste it in the air.

He pictures the valley between Castiel’s tanned pecs, the way that droplet of water traced its path last night. He feels it beneath his curious fingers through a thin layer of fabric. The hot, lean muscle just below, and the thin trail of hair leading down, down...

It doesn’t take long for his mind to wander further, nor his hand. His movements stutter slightly as he wonders what Cas looks like in the places he’s yet to see. He feels Cas thicken beneath his palm and kneads once, twice. Hears trembling breaths turn to pleased, eager noises. Feels his own cock swelling against his thigh and makes a needy sound. Dean wants, so fucking much it aches, he _needs—_

Cas.

Cas.

“ _Cas,_ ” he breathes.

He rocks forward, seeking relief. The sheets are too hot on his skin and the pressure within him builds, teetering on that fine border of pleasure-pain. The hand at his waist slides down to his hip, fingertips digging into his skin, pulling him closer, tangible and solid and—

Wait.

_No no no no no—_

Eyes flying open, his brain cycles a mile a minute as full consciousness hits with the force of an actual, physical slap to the face. It’s a weird-ass feeling waking up in your own bed, on your own sheets, but in an unfamiliar room. Fresh from a dream that, while he only recalls in bits and pieces, he’s still a hundred percent sure featured his handsome housemate and totally-not-platonic touching, kissing, moaning.

It takes a few blinks for Dean to remember where he is, why he’s there, what happened the night prior. He knows he drank and must have fallen asleep before the movie ended. He feels the scratch of denim on his legs and cotton on his torso, so he’s dressed. But he’s hard as a damn rock, his head’s resting on someone’s shoulder, there are fingers in his hair, eyes squinting at him mere inches away, the hand on his hip is real and his own is touching—

“Dean?”

“Fuck!”

He jerks backward so violently he almost falls clear off the side of the bed before Cas’ arm shoots out, catches and reels him in (how the dorky guy’s got reflexes like that is beyond him but they just saved him from having a seriously sore ass, and not in the fun way, so he’s not about to question it).

Also, what the actual fuck? Cas is gonna think he offered up his bed just so he could what, molest him in his sleep? Son of a bitch, Dean’s so screwed! (Again, not in the fun way.)

“Shit, Cas—”

“Dean, I’m—”

“—I’m so—”

“—Sorry.”

Both their mouths snap shut as they stare blankly at each other, parallel on the bed. The sheets are thrown askew due to his thrashing but neither of them are brave enough to allow their eyes to drift downward. Dean’s face colors, his heart racing. Thudding so loud he’s sure Cas can hear it.

“I, uh,” he mutters intelligently, letting out an awkward laugh. Dean shuffles clumsily off the bed, turning away to conceal what little of his boner the shock hasn’t killed yet. “I’m-I’m gonna—coffee. Breakfast. Yeah.”

He grabs his phone from the nightstand, a clean pair of clothes from a still-unpacked box by the bed, and, holding them over his crotch, high-tails it to the bathroom, too embarrassed to look back.

* * *

_Well, that was… interesting._

Castiel flops onto his back, feeling winded and confused. Here he'd been worrying about making any moves on Dean, and turns out Dean is the first to get handsy. Judging by Dean’s reaction it was unintentional, probably just coming out of a pleasant sex dream. He could have been anyone...

He's not upset, not angry with Dean whatsoever. More mortified than anything that Dean knows how aroused he made him, that Dean caught him in this compromising situation, and that he responded in kind like a horny, touch-starved teenager without waiting for consent. But try telling any of that to Castiel’s cock right now, which seems to care very little, if at all, about his turbulent emotional state.

There’s only one way to fix it at this point. He wants touch, friction. Needs _relief_. It would be sleazy to masturbate in someone else’s bed, though the temptation is definitely there because he’s still a bit remiss to be awake at this hour or even considering getting out of bed. Were his blood pressure not through the roof, and were he not so damn hard, he’d probably shrug it off, roll over, and go back to sleep.

He grinds his molars together, musing, _would another shower be too obvious?_

A few seconds pass before he decides, _fuck it._ Might as well rub one out. It’s been a while, and frankly, avoiding doing so won’t alleviate the awkward tension between him and Dean any. If anything, it’s probably made it that much worse. Only one night in and already struggling; how he’s to survive the next ten days is beyond him.

His bare feet hit the cool wood floorboards, arms stretched above his head. The _crack-pop-crack_ of his realigning vertebrae echoes in the empty space, a leisurely groan following soon behind. Dropping his arms, Castiel yawns and scratches his lower belly, unintentionally grazing his erection and a heady, thrilling pulse of pleasure vibrates through him.

He pads to the room across the hall and finds it empty. Dean must have let Claire out when he got up. He smiles, pleased at how thoughtful the man is, despite what her proximity does to him (though it seems to have abated now that Dean’s taken to a regular medicinal regimen). After picking through his suitcase, he slips into the bathroom and turns on the shower. Steps in without waiting for it to warm, half-heartedly hoping the shock of cold will kill his arousal.

It doesn’t.

He sighs, eyes sliding shut.

God, but Dean’s touch felt so _good_. He shouldn’t think it, knows he shouldn’t. Half asleep and hardly coherent, murmuring in that lethargic, dulcet voice, Dean couldn’t have known what he was doing. But that doesn’t stop the throbbing between his legs, the hum of desire flooding his veins, doesn’t mollify his appetite in the least. 

Giving in to the urge, Castiel leans his back against the wall, legs spread, and thumbs over the head of his cock. Doesn’t even try to bite back the moan that spills from his throat at the satisfaction that little taste of friction provides. His pelvis rocks forward, sliding him easily through a tight circle of soapy fingers as he replays the path Dean took that morning with his free hand.

What if he hadn’t stopped? What if he wanted it just as badly? What if Castiel had encouraged those starved and desperate caresses with his own? As good as they were above his clothes, oh, he’d give anything to feel Dean’s hands beneath them. On him right now, with his skin all hot and slick. He brings a leg up, propping his foot on the edge of the tub as a hand dips down low between his thighs. Just a hint of pressure against his perineum, teasing and too light. A single finger circling, he rubs around his rim but doesn’t press in where he wants. Not quite yet.

He imagines Dean greedily measuring every tiny noise, every pant and groan, every expression on his face as he fucks him slowly open on his fingers, learning all his special tells and playing Castiel like a fine-tuned instrument. His finger slips inside, still slow, wet and yet not slick enough for the perfect balance of friction and slide as his inner walls both stretch and clench in pulsing waves. Head tipping sharply back, it knocks against the tile. This isn’t the perfect angle, but oh well, he’ll work with what he’s got for now because he’s done this enough times to know every firm stroke, every twist and flick, to know just the way he likes it as he builds up a rhythm between the mild burn and pressure in his ass and the hand furiously working his dick.

And Dean’s mouth, _oh yes_ , would look so good sliding down him that the very thought makes him groan, tighten his grip and stroke faster, faster, edging toward the precipice, pressure coiling in his groin like a rubber band stretching taut. What shapes would Dean’s perfect pink lips make if Castiel pinned him against this wall, spread his cheeks, and fucked that tight, pretty ass with his tongue? He’d make him beg and whine and writhe and plead for his cock, for his touch, make Dean cry out his name as he takes him, splits him apart and puts him back together atom by atom, claims him as _his_ —

_Harder, baby, fuck,_

_don’t stop, oh God please..._

_Don’t stop!_

_CAS!_

He hears a distant thud beyond the bathroom door but can’t bring himself to care because he's close, _fuck_ , he's so close. Dean’s voice is in his mind, wanton and frantic, and this need, this _desire_ , it's all-consuming, his own touch both too much and not enough. A low growl rumbles from his throat as he jerks himself quick and rough, smearing precome and soap over the smooth, hard flesh. He bucks desperately between both hands, the pressure growing in intensity, and with the perfect crook of his finger and flick of his wrist— _God, yes, just right, right there, right there, yes!—_ his abs tense, ass clenches, and he comes so hard the breath rushes from his lungs, leaves him gasping for air facing the ceiling as if in prayer, the only thing holding him up his trembling thighs forcing his spine into the tile.

He can’t tell if it’s seconds or minutes before his head clears and droops forward, regret and disappointment burrowing deep in his stomach because, just once, he wishes he were brave enough (or perhaps stupid enough) to do what he wants. Without reservation, no holding back, toss propriety out the window.

Rubbing a towel through his mess of hair, he scoffs, because what good has decorum ever done him? Led him to a job he barely tolerates and a lonely, mediocre life? Maybe Gabe’s right (yet again, damn him), and this is his chance to do things differently. Do what he meant to when he first left, when he still had dreams of better things. Before he caved to pressure, duty, and slid right back under his father’s thumb.

His stomach growls. For now, he pushes those thoughts aside.

* * *

After finding and feeding Claire, Castiel finally makes it to the kitchen and sees Dean perusing the old refrigerator for what limited ingredients they’d had the foresight to stock.

This was one of the first rooms they’d cleaned, previously covered in layers of dust, grime, dead bugs and scattered rat droppings. Thankfully, the old musty smell has faded and the scents of freshly-brewed Columbian roast and fried applewood bacon permeate the air instead. Still unnoticed, he observes from the other side of the counter. Dean is as infuriatingly sexy as ever, bending over in jeans that make Castiel bite his lip.

Perhaps it’s the leftover surge of dopamine from his recent orgasm which has yet to subside, or the lingering morning drowse the shower failed to erase. Whatever the cause, he lets his eyes rake hungrily over him. Lets every inch sear itself into his memory (saving those details for future fantasies. Who wouldn’t?) and doesn’t look away when Dean straightens and turns, catching his gaze. The attention colors Dean’s cheeks and, after an awkwardly interminable staring match, filled with either nervous tension or another sort of tension entirely, it’s strangely difficult to determine, Dean settles on offering Castiel a sly smile while sauntering toward the stove.

It’s unfair for anyone to look so gorgeous and refreshed at this hour, particularly after a night of pizza and liquor. Clean-shaven, hair perfectly teased, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Not to mention the rest of him… Dean looks good in everything, but the faded, timeworn Led Zeppelin t-shirt stretched tightly across his chest beneath an open burgundy button-up might be his favorite look yet.

As Castiel had seen in the mirror earlier, his own appearance is complete with eye-bags, damp hair that refuses to tame, and day-old scruff he didn’t bother shaving because he rarely gets to ignore that part of the routine in his line of work. His clothes aren’t much to speak of, either. By college, he’d spent so long in boarding school uniforms he never developed a personal style beyond slacks and sweater vests. And being consistently broke, he wore whatever cheap, basic items he could thrift or buy in convenient multi-packs.

His style now, if it could even be called that, ended up a strange hodgepodge of that era and the current one. It boringly consists of jeans, slacks, a few plain, monochrome t-shirts, shorts, sweatpants reserved for exercise or lounging at home, and his favorite trench. And for work, exactly a dozen white dress shirts and five business suits (three black, two dark navy) he rotates through each week and dry cleans every Saturday like clockwork.

Suddenly self-conscious, he circles the center island to pour himself coffee, lamenting today’s choice of black slacks (since his jeans are dirty) and plain grey t-shirt. Both of which are horribly wrinkled from sitting in his suitcase all week. He's never placed much priority on his wardrobe, nor had much occasion to regret that fact... until now. Parking a hip against the island beside Dean, Castiel wonders idly what he’d choose, given the option. If he would look more appealing, perhaps, with a little more effort.

 _Christ, am I really debating_ fashion _with myself? I sound like a teen girl with a crush, hoping the right outfit will get me the guy. How pathetic._

He nurses the hot mug between both hands and takes a timid sip, watching as Dean pulls eggs out of the carton he’d set by the stove and cracks them into a bowl. Bacon is already frying in one pan, the other bearing a square pad of steadily melting butter. Dean’s eyes flicker repeatedly between Castiel and his task and he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot in the extended silence.

“Not a morning person, huh?” Dean finally says, pouring whisked eggs into the buttered pan.

_Understatement of the century._

Encouraged rather than put off by his answering glower, Dean’s expression grows into a full-blown shit-eating grin. A sarcastic retort lays heavy and thick on Castiel’s tongue, but he swallows it down. Sighs, instead, and runs a hand through his thick hair. Dean’s just trying to break the tension. Plus, it’s difficult to be snarky with Dean when he looks so unreasonably delicious, Castiel’s sexual frustration and poor self-esteem aside.

“Never have been.” He takes a larger gulp of his coffee. Too soon. He hisses through his teeth as it singes his tongue, burns and numbs in equal measure on the way down.

“Need some hair of the dog?”

“What purpose would canine fur serve?”

Dean laughs boisterously, head thrown back, exposing his glorious throat. He has the sudden urge to trace it with his tongue.

“It’s a hangover cure, Cas. What kinda rock you been livin’ under?” And then, with a noticeably teasing lilt, “Aren’t you a _big city_ guy?”

He glares, unamused. “I have never occupied the underside of a rock, Dean. And anyway, how would this ‘hair of the dog’ help?”

“Seriously?" Dean blinks. "It’s—you take a shot, man, of whatever you drank the night before. With some coffee or juice, usually.” Noting Castiel’s sour expression, he chuckles. “You know. ‘The cure for what ails you is more of it?’ I dunno why it works, it just does. Uh, temporarily, though. Better to get some greasy food in ya.”

“Well, I’m not hungover.”

Plating the eggs and bacon, Dean shakes his head, the indulgent smile playing at the corners of his mouth taking the bite out of his next statement. “Just grumpy.”

Castiel follows Dean to the small breakfast nook in the corner of the kitchen and settles into a chair at the table’s end beside him. “Not without reason.”

Dean pauses, glancing up through his lashes, fork halfway to his mouth. He lowers it slowly with a sigh, cheeks flushing. “Look, um… about this morning—”

“Dean, it’s—” _It’s okay, I didn’t mind, I liked it, I touched myself in the shower thinking of you, please God do it again—_

“I didn’t”—his eyes dart away, looking at everything except Castiel—“You know. Mean for that to happen.”

“It’s alright.” Though he knew that, it’s still a punch in the gut to hear it out loud. He could have been any warm body beside him this morning, and it wouldn’t have made a difference to Dean. His gaze drops to his untouched plate, dejected. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry I fell asleep on ya like that, it wasn’t uh. Planned or anything.” Dean rubs his neck self-consciously. “Probably think I’m a real creep.”

“I don’t—”

“I’ll take the couch tonight like I said I would yesterday.”

“ _Dean,_ no _._ I don’t think you’re a creep. Quite the opposite. I liked sleeping with you.”

“Oh…” Eyes wide, Dean wets his lips.

A hot blush works up Castiel’s neck as what he’s implied hits him and more comes tumbling heedlessly out. “I meant, just sleeping, not sleeping with, of course—uh, not that you’re not attractive—” Castiel’s throat clicks around a harsh, too-dry swallow.

Suddenly smug, Dean asks, “You hittin’ on me, Cas?”

He’s never been good at this flirting business, at least not when doing so intentionally and entirely sober. He gulps down half his coffee in short order, avoiding Dean’s stare. The liquid soothes his throat now that it’s had time to cool, but does little for his nerves.

“I’m sorry, that was extremely inappropriate. I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable. Let’s um, please just forget this entire conversation.”

“Relax, man. I’m kidding.” Dean looks away, raising his cup to his lips. After a long, slow sip, he says something under his breath that sounds like, “Unless...” but it's too soft, slipping off through the air even as Castiel strains to hear.

His heart still desperately attempting to escape his ribcage, Castiel isn’t sure how to respond, or if he should at all. Without meeting Castiel’s eyes, Dean’s smile drops in the ensuing quiet, expression flickering with emotions he can’t quite discern before schooling into placid neutrality.

Dean returns his attention to the food, scooping up another few bites in quick succession, leaving Castiel more confused than when this conversation began. Rather than pursue it, he figures it’s best to pretend he heard nothing. He takes Dean’s cue and nibbles at a strip of bacon, hoping he doesn’t look as stunned and shaken as he feels.

The silence grows deafening and tense, though Dean seems undisturbed as he scrolls through his phone laying flat on the table and polishes off his breakfast.

“What was your reason, then?” Dean asks out of the blue, eyes still on the screen under his fingers.

Try as he might, Castiel can’t for the life of him recall what the question pertains to. “For?”

“For being grumpy.”

A gust of air rushes past Castiel’s lips. “Oh. I simply meant you were right. I’m not a morning person, not in the least. Though I should be used to it by now.”

“‘Cause of your job?”

He nods. “When I went to work for my father’s company, I was fresh out of university. It was…” he trails off, eyes nailed to the table. Throat constricting on the syllables, he swallows hard. It’s not a time he looks back on fondly.

As with most young people in college, he had his share of experimental indiscretions (a sheltered life will do that). Regardless, he’d been a good student, full of idealism and promise. He’d excelled, enjoyed his time there. Life outside university, however, was a harsh reality he’d been entirely unprepared for. Turned out there wasn’t a thriving market for history majors waiting on the other side and he’d never lived without stability, security, before. Lost, broke (with a pile of student debt), and alone, he was left with little choice but to return to the fold. It wasn’t what he’d wanted, but Michael took him under his wing and got him a job as a copywriter in one of their branches.

His brother’s words repeat in his mind. _Look at you. What good is a tool, if it can’t properly perform its function? There is no room for doubt in this world, not if you want to survive. Follow Father’s plan,_ my _plan, and we will take care of you. Do as you are told like a good little soldier. If you don’t, you’re on your own again. For good. Is that what you want?_

It’s a struggle, returning to his point. “I did well in school. After, not so much.” He shrugs. “Academia provides a very different lifestyle to one’s average ‘nine to five’. Michael said I got lazy, complacent.”

Dean’s brow wrinkles and mouth twists like he’s just smelled something foul. “No offense, but your brother sounds like a real douchebag.”

Castiel smiles weakly. “None taken. It’s true he can be difficult to get along with, but he’s not all bad. He brought me in, gave me a job when he didn’t have to.”

Dean’s forcefully clenched jaw and determined eyes tell him he is more than displeased with that answer but is biting his tongue against whatever he truly wants to say. “What did you do after that?”

He sighs, listlessly scooting eggs around the plate with his fork. “I couldn’t afford a place near my office. Could barely afford anything, if I’m being honest. I kept couch-hopping with friends for a while, stayed in a few shelters. Eventually saved enough to get my 'shithole' apartment, as Gabriel calls it, in Mattapan and started getting up at dawn to take the red line to Downtown Crossing every morning. Needless to say, it was a difficult adjustment.”

“Wait… so you were _homeless_ , and your own _family_ wouldn’t take you in? What the actual fuck.”

“Yes... As I said when we met, we had somewhat of a falling out.”

He’d tried. He’d worked. Day in, day out, for the better part of a decade. And still, it had never been enough. Not for Michael, not for their father. Not for Castiel. He’ll always be the odd one out, that spanner in the wheel of their well-oiled machine. He’ll never quite _fit_.

“Not that we were close before that, mind you. Well, Gabe and I were, but he’d moved out to Los Angeles by then. He sent me money when he could, but I didn't want to rely on him like that. It’s been so many years since…”

“Hey.” Scooting his chair closer, Dean angles his body toward Castiel.

“I’ve only been here a little over a week and already feel myself slipping into old habits. Guess it just brought up some… uncomfortable memories.” He glances away from Dean’s painfully sympathetic eyes and clears his throat. “It’s not important.”

“Cas. Don’t say that.” Dean lays his hand atop Castiel’s, and quiets until Castiel looks at him again. Concern draws Dean’s lips into a thin line and burrows into the corners of his softening gaze. “Look, I’m not good at uh, feelings and shit. But it is important. _You’re_ important.”

"I..." His chest tightens, the conflicting emotions warring inside him halting his breath for an agonizing second. A dark, self-loathing part of him doesn't believe Dean. _Can't_. But for the first time... he wants to. He doesn't know what to say except, “Thank you, Dean.”

Dean’s responding grin is possibly the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and with it, the pressure dissipates. Dean pats his hand once and sits back. “Besides, you’re not a damn robot, man. Don’t feel bad for taking a break. Matter of fact, you know what you need?”

_To kiss you._

“What?”

“You work too hard, Cas. Sounds like you have been for a long ass time. This is basically your vacation, but since you’ve been here it’s been nothing but more work. Cleaning, stressing over the house, helping me move my crap. You need to loosen up, have some fun.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow with uncertainty. “ _Fun_ ,” he drawls, punctuating the last letter.

“We should have a housewarming party! You gotta let off some steam. Might as well meet the locals, too.” Castiel’s lips part with a rebuttal but the sound is halted by Dean’s palm, held vertical in the air between them. “Nope. House rules. We’re doin’ this. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

“How many of these ‘house rules’ do you have?”

Dean snickers, eyes chasing Castiel’s fingers as they crook around the words. He stabs at the eggs on his plate and takes another bite, talking and grinning simultaneously around the mouthful. “Just the important ones.”

“Fine,” he reluctantly agrees. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Alright then.”

Dean guffaws at that. “Damn, man. You really are a grouch.”

Castiel’s lips purse. He decides not to deign that with another reply and instead downs the rest of his coffee in one go. As he’s preparing to rise for more, Dean snatches the cup.

“Nope, sit. Eat. I got you.”

“Dean—” he starts, but the man’s already navigating back through the kitchen. It’s discomfiting. Itches beneath his skin. He’s unaccustomed to being taken care of like this, and conflicted because he can’t decide if he’s being infantilized or Dean is genuinely attempting to console him, make him happy. The latter he has far more difficulty believing, though Dean’s never given him any indication that he finds Castiel incompetent or childish.

“Here.” Dean places a fresh, steaming cup before him. “I’ve got my work truck out front already. Sam and Benny are stopping by in a couple hours, we’re gonna check out the roof and siding today before we start on anything major inside.”

Dean turns away. Castiel blurts, “Dean, wait.” He glances back, meeting Castiel’s eyes, his own guarded. “Thank you.”

Dean scratches his nape. “Yeah. No problem.”

“Can I do anything?” It doesn’t feel right letting others do all the work. Castiel needs to feel useful, to know he’s not merely a burden. _A tool with no purpose._

“Hmm...” Dean scrubs his chin, expression thoughtful. “Meet me outside when you’re done and we’ll go from there, ‘kay?”

Claire appears in short order, meandering in circles around his feet before settling down for a nap. Castiel rushes eagerly through breakfast (and the best scrambled eggs he’s ever eaten), stopping briefly to scratch the tabby behind the ears and coo endearments at her. She's taken so well to the house, has made an efficient mouser, and has even warmed up to Dean over the last several days with his recurring appearances at the motel. It pleases him immensely to see his little girl, as he affectionately calls her, enjoying her time in Eden as much as he has.

When he finally emerges, Dean’s nowhere to be seen. He examines the truck out front, parked in the grass beside Baby, but it’s empty. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he scans the property.

It truly is beautiful here, and so unlike the city. Refreshing in a way no place he’s ever lived before has been. Beneath the clear summer sky, the trees and grass are lush and bright, swishing gently with the pleasant breeze. Most of the land immediately surrounding the house is flat, a few trees interspersed between it, the road, and the forest line at the far edge of the property. It’s stunning, near inconceivable to think that all this land, all this beauty, could be his. Well… _is_ his. Returning to Boston has never felt so wrong. How can he, after having the world at his fingertips?

 _This here,_ he thinks, _it’s like Heaven._

“Hey!”

Torn from his thoughts, Castiel whips around. He spots Dean waving to him from the roof and his stomach lurches. Dean points to the side of the house and Castiel follows to find a long metal ladder. He waits at the base, wringing his hands, and within a few minutes, Dean comes clambering down.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks.

“Feel like I’m gonna puke, but yeah.” Castiel’s head cocks in question. Dean chuckles and shakes his head. “I fuckin’ hate heights, man.”

“Dean, if you don’t want to—”

“Nah, Cas. It’s only two floors, I can deal with it.”

“If you’re certain…”

“Worried about me?”

“Yes,” he says seriously.

Dean pauses at that, gives him a strange look. Perhaps it was not the answer he expected. “Oh, well, uh. Don’t need to.” He shrugs. “Not my first rodeo.”

He steps closer to lay a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Less to comfort Dean, and more to assure himself that Dean is safe, secure, on the ground with him. He squeezes and their eyes meet. It’d be elementary, so easy to take that final step, close the scant gap between them and feel Dean’s body pressed against him. Warm and solid, strong. There’s a second when he catches Dean’s tongue wetting his bottom lip, his gaze darting from Castiel’s eyes down to his mouth. He’s reminded of the man’s roaming, curious hands, how good it felt simply to be _touched_ , and his hushed exhalation of “unless…” in the kitchen only half an hour prior. He opens his mouth to speak, to ask—

The crunch of tires against dirt and gravel pulls them apart.

Sam and the man Castiel assumes to be Benny step out of a truck bearing the same logo as Dean's. He's a vaguely familiar, broad man in a charcoal tweed newsboy cap, about Castiel's own height but seeming larger for his bulk. All hefty muscle and a swagger in his step that screams confidence and charm. As he approaches, Castiel notes piercing yet soulful sky-blue eyes, twinkling with amusement above a lopsided smirk.

He backs up a step and watches as Dean passes him by to embrace the two men. First Sam, with a quick hug around the shoulders and clap on the back. Then Benny, in a full-on bear hug which lasts a little too long for Castiel’s liking. His gut twists with an instinct that tells him the two are more than friends. The knowledge hurts, though it has no right to.

He glances away, shoulders slumping with disappointment, arms limp at his sides.

“How you doin’, brotha?” Benny says, pulling away with a grin.

Dean lets out a jovial chuckle. “Not bad. Benny, this is Cas. Cas, my buddy Benny.”

“Cas _tiel_?” Benny drawls in a husky, syrup-thick cadence. Castiel guesses New Orleans; strange to find in small-town South Dakota. He wonders how exactly Benny and Dean became acquainted, but quickly shoves the thought from his mind. Now is not the time.

Castiel cocks a singular dark brow as the burly man gives him a long and lingering once-over that under any other circumstances might peak his own interest. Benny clicks his tongue against his teeth, making a pleased sound deep in his throat. He holds out a hand.

“ _Pleasure_ to meet you, cher. Have to say the description did _not_ do you justice.”

The man’s gaze isn’t lewd, nor are his words inappropriately suggestive. Rather, he seems genuinely intrigued. Appreciative, even. Castiel isn’t usually one to preen, but it’s difficult not to do so under such attention. And alright, perhaps a petty part of him also wants to see how Dean responds. He finds himself standing a little straighter as he steps forward to proffer his hand, matching the firmness of Benny’s returned grip. The other man’s grin widens. Either he’s impressed, or thrilled by the challenge, Castiel can’t tell.

Sam’s silent throughout the exchange. Arms crossed, eyes flickering between the three of them as though they’re empty boxes on the New York Times crossword and he’s working over the clues in his mind.

Dean huffs a breath beside them, sounding almost annoyed. “You done?” he says, tone surly. Benny chuckles, giving Castiel an eerily knowing look as he nods and drops his hand.

Sam clears his throat and lets his arms unravel, drawing Castiel’s attention away from the strange look Dean’s shooting Benny. He says hello, and Sam returns the formal greeting with an embrace so surprising and warm that he forgets to hug back for a moment, ends up awkwardly patting the middle of his back instead.

When released, he looks shyly at his feet, worried that Sam will take it as an affront. Knowing how important he is to Dean, it means so much to him that they be friends. Thankfully, the younger Winchester simply gives him an understanding smile that reminds Castiel so much of Dean.

He decides then that Sam is impossible not to like, and endeavors to, as Dean would put it, “loosen up.”

“Doesn’t look like the roof needs replacing, just some patches here and there,” Dean says. “Siding needs a little work but I don’t see any major damage. Good scrub down and fresh coat of paint ought to do it. We could knock all that out in a couple days.”

Sam tilts up his chin, scanning the house. “Sounds good.”

The plans for the day laid, Dean guides Castiel to the truck and gives him instructions for his part. He’s slightly disgruntled to be stuck in the house scraping wallpaper rather than outside with Dean, but takes the tools and sheet plastic for the floor without complaint. With one last lingering look from the porch, he sighs and sets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
> NSFW Content  
> Implied alcohol abuse/alcoholism.  
> Some dubious consent touching in this chapter - both are actually okay with it (and if they'd use their damn words, both would know that). Just a fair warning to cover my bases.  
> 
> 
> Once again I must thank [dothraki_shieldmaiden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden/works) and [lostinfantasies38](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostinfantasies38/pseuds/Lostinfantasies38/works) for pre-reading, putting up with my griping, and all of their support.
> 
>   
> And to my readers: each and every comment, kudos, and bookmark is a bright spot in my life that gets me through to the next chapter. Thank you!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check end notes for content warnings.

It ought to freak him out how quickly he’s adjusted to living with Cas, how comfortable he is with someone he’s known only a short time. Yet they’ve fallen into a pleasant routine together over the last few days, and he’s finding he enjoys the guy’s company more than he has anyone’s in… well, ever.

It’s not that Dean doesn’t appreciate the time he spends with the rest of his family and friends, because he truly does. Dean’s a fairly enigmatic guy; despite some prickly aspects of his personality, he’s also charming, social, and a people pleaser.

Yet more often than not, at the end of a long-ass day, all he really wants is to retreat from the world, turn his phone off, hide in his room, and enjoy some me-time. Eat greasy food, have a beer or two, listen to music, watch movies and porn, masturbate. The usual.

Although enormous, even his social battery runs out of juice after a while and needs to recharge.

With Cas, however...

He wants to be around Cas _all the time._

It feels weird when they’re _not_ together.

He misses the guy enough to keep tabs on him throughout his workday. At first, he worried he’d come across as clingy, overbearing. Make his feelings too obvious. But if Cas thinks so, he says nothing.

Dean sends Cas memes, shares little anecdotes about the jobs he’s doing, winges about paperwork whenever he’s stuck in the office for a couple hours, ensures Cas isn’t bored out of his mind. Cas sends selfies when he’s out jogging (which Dean totally secretly saves) and cute pictures of Claire, waxes poetic about bees, literature, and whatever the hell else randomly crosses his mind, and apparently has an emoji addiction comparable to that of a teenage girl. They share ideas for the house and property, make plans for the renovation. Swap links for appliances they’re partial to, home decor, paint colors.

Dean has never watched the clock tick by with such rapt attention or yearned so desperately to rush home after work.

He’s excited to cook dinner for Cas so he can see the look on his face when he eats, hear the noises of pleasure he makes when he enjoys the food (sounds he most definitely files away for later).

Each accidental brush of an elbow and pat on the shoulder that lingers a little too long sets his body on fire. The dumb little flip-flops his stomach does when he sees Cas smile over the dinner table, hears his nerdy laugh or catches him staring with that bold, inquisitive gaze that says Dean’s the most fascinating thing Cas has ever seen, make him feel like he’s in seventh grade and experiencing his first crush all over again.

He eagerly anticipates the bed dipping and shifting when Cas settles in beside him at night, even if it’s accompanied by a pang of longing to cross the distance between them. Dean loves watching the adorable wrinkle of Cas’ nose as he squints at the TV, over-scrutinizing the plot of whichever episode of Dr. Sexy they’re on, regardless of how many times they’ve both seen it.

(Cas noticed the medical drama-slash-soap opera in Dean’s Netflix queue Sunday night, and, to Dean’s immense joy and amusement, is also a fan.)

Binging it together before bed quickly becomes one of Dean’s favorite parts of the day, second only to witnessing Castiel’s beautiful, sleep-smooth face in the dim glow of morning before the other man’s irritable ass wakes and stumbles out of bed with the blunt demand for caffeine.

It’s downright _domestic_.

Dean's had no one to wake up with, come home to, and take care of since Sammy, and even then, it never felt like _this_.

He can simply be _himself_ around Cas. The guy doesn’t judge him or prod him with questions he can’t answer. Cas just… understands, sometimes without words involved at all, and he can’t remember the last time someone made him smile so much or laugh so hard. It’s all so new and good and _right_ that it kinda terrifies him, not ‘cause he’s scared to have it, but because he’s scared to _lose_ it.

Anxiety nags at the back of his mind. There’s this dark feeling that takes over him when they part in the morning, as though a lifetime of separation waits beyond the front door regardless of how much they text. His heart aches with the knowledge that one of these days, once his eight hours are up and he comes home, it’s gonna be to an empty house, Cas and Claire packed up and gone. (Yeah, he’ll even miss the _cat_. She’s grown on him, so what?)

It’s got Dean reeling lately. Got him thinking a lot about the people in his life, what they mean to him, and where Cas fits.

There’s Sam, who he considers his other half in a lot of ways and knows him better than anyone. But even with his brother, Dean’s always had to play a role. Parent, guardian, teacher, big brother, and pretty much in that order. Hard as Sam tries to get him to open up, talk about his “feelings”, he can’t. Not to the extent Sam wants, because to do so would lay bare all his insecurities and, worse than that, all his guilt. Guilt he holds for resenting his brother when Sammy did literally nothing to deserve it.

It isn’t Sam’s fault Mom died and Dad went off the friggin’ deep end. Isn’t his fault Dean got stuck with so much responsibility so young. Isn’t his fault he got a childhood and Dean never did.

He doesn't feel that way anymore, but when he was a kid? When he silently cried himself to sleep 'cause his stomach hurt after giving Sammy the last bowl of Lucky Charms? When he spent a night in county the first time he got caught stealing? When John came back drunk from bad jobs and beat the shit out of him? When he ditched them at Bobby’s and never looked back? When he wanted the freedom to hang out with friends after school instead of working his ass off to help pay bills? It ate at him.

And he hates himself for it.

So yeah, close as they are, deep and unconditional as their love runs, there’s always gonna be things Dean holds back. Shit he buries. He’s spent his entire life protecting that kid and if that means taking his pain and guilt to the grave to keep from hurting him, so be it.

For a little while, he had Lisa, but they had a complicated relationship from the get-go. Lisa Braeden was perfect; too perfect. Way the fuck out of Dean’s league, and they both knew it. Even on the calmer days when no ripples disturbed the surface, this undercurrent of instability lay waiting beneath. Things they left unsaid day after day until it felt pointless to even try.

Eventually, it was clear what they had wasn’t moving forward, and whatever “next step” Lisa kept sticking around for wasn’t coming. Nearly a year passed, and he still stayed at Bobby’s more often than not, and half the nights he did spend at her place he crashed on the couch rather than following her to bed.

Dean’s heart wasn’t in it, not the way hers was. There was too much shit he couldn’t let go of, too many pieces of himself he simply couldn’t give her.

Whether because he wasn’t ready to or because those pieces never belonged to her to begin with, he’ll never know. Looking back, he’s surprised they lasted as long as they did.

Which leaves him circling back to Cas. He’s not a brother, nor a lover, and not merely a friend like Charlie or Benny. So what the fuck is he to Dean?

They clicked immediately, yeah, but he sorta thought that as the novelty faded, so would his infatuation. If anything, it’s gotten stronger as they’ve grown closer and now he's struggling to tune out the voice in his head that whispers "soulmate" every time he looks at those beautiful blue eyes.

He doesn’t believe in fate; that stuff’s only for fairy tales and romantic comedies and that one play his English teacher had the class read in high school he’ll never acknowledge made him tear up a little. Yet he can’t quite shake the idea that they were meant to meet because... Cas feels like a piece of Dean he never knew was missing. 

It’d be a lie to say it’s sunshine and rainbows all the time, however.

Tuesday evening, July 20th, is stifling and humid due to record-high temps combined with heavy rain earlier in the day that, rather than cooling anything off or quickly drying in the sun, turned the entire goddamn town into a muggy swamp.

They open all the windows and turn on every stand-alone and ceiling fan in the house to circulate the draft, but it’s like sitting in Baby with the vents blowing hot air at his face while he waits for it to cool. (Yeah, he needs install HVAC in the house like, _yesterday_.)

Rivulets of sweat run down his brow, temples. Damp heat curls the hair around Cas’ ears and nape, though he tries not to look to closely at that. Or the way clothes stick wetly to the curve and shape of him. Dean pushes his own hair off his forehead, frustrated, and halfway through the day peels off his shirt.

Another hour in and he’s half-tempted to let his jeans join it where it’s draped and dripping over the back of a kitchen chair. He perches at the island, its surface a welcoming coolness against his bare forearms, and guzzles the neck of a cold beer.

But it isn’t enough.

Maybe it’s the heat that gets to him. Maybe work’s stressing him out. Maybe it’s that he hasn’t been laid in a few months and watching Cas walk past him in those tiny running shorts and _Dean’s_ threadbare AC/DC t-shirt he borrowed ‘cause they need to do laundry, soaked through and clinging in all the right places, is fucking torture. Who knows?

Whatever it is, he snaps.

According to Dean, Cas is a fucking slob. According to Cas, Dean is an anal-retentive prick.

_Big mistake._

Because Cas doesn’t shout. Doesn’t even clench a fist, which is somehow more terrifying than if Cas hit him outright. Instead, midway through Dean’s diatribe, Cas gets eerily quiet. Calm and still on the outside but tense and bristling within, akin to the darkening sky before a thunderstorm, face ruddy and pink from the hellish temperature.

The air grows heavy between them, crackling with electricity as Cas’ eyes slip from incredulous fury to calculating, sharp as steel. Dean doesn’t take the hint at first, blinded by the intoxicating rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Just keeps on running his mouth with shit like, “quit leaving laundry on the floor, clean out the fucking sink after you shave, and could you make the damn bed for once!”

Then out of nowhere, Cas says, “ _Dean,_ ” voice in a register lower than he's ever heard it. He gets right in his face, one eyebrow arched, jaw rigid, such righteous indignation in his stare that it makes Dean feel small even though he's got two damn inches on the guy, and it's so unlike Cas’ usual demeanor it almost gives Dean mental whiplash.

Their bodies are inches apart, the heat emanating from both of them near sweltering, so close if Dean took a deep breath their chests would brush and when Cas finally speaks again it's in a steady, careful, low smolder.

“You should _show me_ some _**respect**_ **.** ”

_Holy shit,_ Dean has never been so turned on _in his life_.

It’s a helluva good thing Cas’ eyes are glued to his instead of wandering at that moment because otherwise there’d be no way to hide the traitorous hard-on trapped, sticky-hot and wet at the tip, between his thigh and dark, distressed denim.

Dean’s never been into hardcore kinky stuff. Not for lack of curiosity so much as opportunity and long-term partners because let’s face it, there’s a lot of trust involved in opening yourself up to that kind of vulnerability. He hasn’t indulged in most of his wilder fantasies, aside from that drunken night with Rhonda Hurley when he was nineteen (which led to the sizable collection he keeps hidden in the bottom drawer of his dresser that no one knows about and _never will)._

But in that brief, heated moment, he _knows_ he’d be hard-pressed not to drop to his hands and knees, present his bare ass, and whine, “Please, Sir!” right there in the kitchen if Cas demanded it. Deep down, his rebellious, bratty side is kinda itching to see what’ll happen if he pushes his luck. But he’s not actually _that_ much of an asshole, and really, he’s tryin’ to get Cas to like him, not murder him in his sleep and bury him behind the outbuilding.

So he turns, completely silent, and flees to the nearest bathroom. Jacks off rough and fast, biting his knuckles to muffle the desperate moan as he comes hard all over his fingers and the floor. Then mopes guiltily around the house like a kicked puppy because the barbs they traded apparently held enough venom to guarantee the silent treatment. Without a word, Cas has him ready to grovel for forgiveness because yeah, he was definitely being a dick and Castiel not talking to him, the invisible wall he's built up, hurts way more than it should.

Eventually, he meanders into the kitchen to nab another beer. Cas takes pity on him with a long-suffering sigh and tentative, “Dean…”

“Cas.”

Eyes slipping shut, Dean takes a breath. He closes the refrigerator door, slowly turns around, and opens them to see Cas on the far side of the room. His gaze is downcast, arms crossed protectively across his chest. The grey fabric between his pecs is dark with sweat, molded to his skin.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says wearily. He parks a hip against the counter and rubs the back of his neck, feeling sheepish and ashamed and still stupidly turned on. “I, uh… I don’t know what got into me.”

“It’s okay.” Cas exhales softly, body curled in on itself. He still won’t look Dean in the eye and that pains him. “I… well,” Cas mumbles, ducking his head to hide his face. “I was frustrated and took it out on you. So, for what it’s worth, I apologize.”

“Nah, Cas, it’s not okay. I—fuck.” Dean crosses the room with a few long strides, stopping a couple of feet from Cas. “I shouldn’t have been so hard on you, man. I’m a fucking dick.”

Cas doesn’t come close to the trashed hotel rooms of John Winchester’s past drunken tirades, the lazy teenage messes his sasquatch of a brother made, or Bobby’s tendency to horde every miscellaneous book, tool, piece of hardware, and appliance he got his hands on or every old rusted-out jalopy that came into the yard heedless of Dean and Ellen’s profuse complaints. So Dean bitching about such minor things makes him wonder if there’s another reason for his outburst.

After years of not having a proper home, stuff of his own, once he and Sammy did have a permanent place to stay, it felt significant. Home is precious, so it means something to him to take care of it. Everything has its place; he’s built up a damn good system keeping it that way, and he spent so long playing housekeeper and parent for his dad and brother the habits are basically automatic at this point.

Maybe it’s outside the gender role norm or whatever, but cleaning, cooking, building and fixing things, taking care of people… that’s how Dean shows his love. Not with platitudes and pretty words, but with actions, and—

 _Woah. Wait—where did that come from? Nope, nope, hold the fucking phone._ He shoves those thoughts from his mind, swallowing them down as he reaches for his next words.

“Look, I’m a control freak with an anger problem. That’s not on you, that’s on me. It’s… it’s somethin’ I gotta work on, and I will, okay?” He rests a hand on Cas’ hunched shoulder and tries not to think about the way it fits perfectly in his palm. More than anything, he really just wants the guy to _look at him_. “I promise.”

In the conversation that follows, they both vow to compromise. Cas agrees to take his coffee mugs to the kitchen instead of leaving them strewn about in various rooms of the house and stop leaving his laundry in a pile on the floor of his still-unoccupied room because, “dude, there’s a basket for a reason.” Dean agrees to loosen the fuck up, stop nitpicking, and trust that even if Cas hasn’t done something _right away,_ that doesn’t mean it won’t get done at all.

“Can we, uh. Can we put this behind us now? Have a few beers, marathon Dr. Sexy, hang out like we always do?”

Cas nods, lips twitching with a bashful smile, and says, “Okay, Dean.”

One episode and several beers later, Cas says he’s going to feed Claire and change, bemoaning the evils of summer and current odor accumulated by his (and technically Dean’s) clothing as a result.

It’s the first evening since they moved in that Dean hasn’t had his ear talked off about the show or entered into some involuntary staring contest that forces him to rewind a scene, and he wonders idly if Cas is still pissed about the fight. He doesn’t get much time to think about it though, because when Cas returns to the room he’s clad in nothing but black, skin-tight boxer briefs.

_Jesus fucking Christ_. 

He stares dully as the other man putters shamelessly about, making himself comfortable, and ignores the alarm bells going off in his brain. It’s unfathomable that this dude sits in an office five days a week because he looks like a wet dream come true; miles of tanned skin, toned muscles, runner’s thighs that could crush watermelons.

Dean’s fingertips twitch with need, and as he rubs two sweating palms against his jeans he notices his cock's beginning to take a keen interest in this new development. He angles his body away, forcing his eyes to follow suit, and ends up railing his pelvis into the corner of the dresser.

Hissing through his teeth, he massages the spot and replies, “‘m fine,” to Cas with a pained grimace while digging through the drawer. This kinda shit hasn’t happened since he hit puberty, and now it’s become a multiple-times-daily occurrence.

_Get it together, Winchester!_

He hastily grabs his things, heads to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, and strips down to his skivvies while debating whether or not to test the waters. This… this _thing_ he has for Cas, though, it’s telling him he wants a lot more than just a one-time lay, and the last thing he wants to do is ruin their budding friendship by coming on too strong too fast. At the last minute, he pulls on a t-shirt.

Cas doesn’t comment as he climbs under the covers beside him, and the next hour is pure torment. At one point, Cas yawns and stretches. With one leg kicked casually out atop the duvet, he rests the arm closest to Dean behind his head. The other hand splays teasingly across his belly, drawing Dean’s attention as his long fingers occasionally rub, scratch, and tease the taut flesh and sparse trail of hair above the elastic of his waistband. It’s borderline pornographic.

Frustratingly, Cas keeps his eyes on the television and speaks in short, curt sentences until they crash for the night. 

The following morning, Dean wakes to the stunning view of Cas’ nude, well-muscled back positioned as close to the opposite edge of the bed as is humanly possible without falling clear off it, and can’t quite make his mind up whether he’s more grateful or disappointed they’ve managed to avoid repeating Sunday’s “incident”.

Okay, disappointment is probably winning. At least by a fraction.

An increasingly large fraction.

Today marks nearly two weeks since Cas first arrived in Eden, though it feels like it’s been twice that. Not that Dean’s counting or anything. (He totally is.) He’s got the day off, so he makes a giant apology breakfast and fixes Cas’ coffee for him just the way he likes it—black with two spoonfuls of local honey instead of sugar, because like the sap Dean apparently is, he’s already got that memorized—and if Cas knows Dean’s being extra nice to make up for last night’s argument, he gracefully doesn’t mention it.

They decide to make a trip to the local grocer in town after since it’s the only day Dean has free until the weekend. He’s excited for Friday’s party, hopeful that everyone likes Cas as much as he does, that they make him feel at home, though focusing on why that matters to him gradually brings down his mood.

Lost in thought, he doesn’t notice that Cas slipped away for a minute until the harsh rattle of the metal cart underneath his fingertips jerks him away from that runaway train. Blinking rapidly, he wonders how long he’s been standing here staring at six different varieties of lettuce. Cas is beside him, hair as ruffled and fucked-out as always—which just makes Dean want to run his fingers through it—tossing box after box of Hungry Man Dinners stacked high in his arms into the basket.

“Dude, no. _Hell_ no. Put that shit back.”

Cas blinks owlishly. “Why?”

“That stuff is garbage! We’re supposed to be getting real food.”

Head tilted, he squints. “But they are ‘real food’,” Cas says, air quotes and all. “I eat them all the time.”

Dean rolls his eyes. It’s like taking a child to the store; not even ten minutes in and nearly everything Cas has grabbed, Dean’s given an adamant _no_ to and shoved back on the shelves. How Cas is even alive is a fucking mystery for the ages, considering the way he shops.

Perhaps Dean’s not the best judge of a “healthy” diet, as Sam can attest, but at least he appreciates _quality_. A grown man simply cannot live off frozen dinners, ramen, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It’s a travesty, is what it is. And kinda… sad. As though nobody’s ever given Cas a decent home-cooked meal or something (Dean would know. Been there, done that).

Well not anymore, not if he can help it.

“They’re _frozen dinners_ , Cas. Nuh-uh, not in our house.” Cas’ eyes widen at that, drawing a hot flush into Dean’s cheeks. “I mean, uh... your—you know what I mean!”

“Dean—”

“Just put them back.”

“But—”

“ _Cas_.”

Castiel’s jaw ticks, a single eyebrow rising with an almost predatory glare that short-circuits Dean’s brain and goes straight to his dick. Again.

 _Damn it_ , he thinks, _how am I supposed to maintain composure when Cas looks like_ that?

It’s bad enough the dude is sex on legs when he’s being awkward and cute; Cas brings out that Badass Motherfucker “I will smite you where you stand” look and all Dean wants to do is sink to his knees in the middle of the produce section. He doesn’t even eat this rabbit food, not unless it’s shoved into a sandwich between stacks of meat and cheese or tossed into a hearty stew or something, and is only here because he knows Sammy will complain if there’s nothing healthy at the party.

He’d much, _much_ rather have a mouthful of Cas’ fat cock any day. Preferably _right the fuck now._

He bites his lip, choking back a needy whimper. Cas must take Dean’s stupefied silence as stubbornness though, thank God, because with a quick glance from Dean’s eyes to his mouth and harsh, unusually shaky exhale, Cas grumbles, “Fine,” and stalks back toward the freezer aisle with his arms full.

And really, who can blame Dean for watching Castiel’s ass until he turns the nearest corner? It’s that glorious, and absolutely worth any looks it earns him from passersby. Soon as Cas disappears from view, Dean glances around to make sure no one’s looking directly at him before subtly adjusting his inappropriate semi.

After a few minutes alone picking through veggies gives him a chance to calm down somewhat, Cas rejoins him, his glower having thankfully lost some of its heat.

“Okay, from now on, we get what’s _on the list_ and that’s it.”

“Dean, I don’t understand why it matters.”

He gives Cas a bitchface even his brother would be proud of. “Of course it matters.” 

“I’m an adult and can make my own decisions.”

“I’m not trying to boss you around!”

Cas deadpans. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“We don’t need that shit.”

“But then you wouldn’t have to cook all the time.”

His shoulders heave with a weary sigh as he drags a hand over his eyes and mouth. “Look, Cas. I get you probably want that stuff so you don’t feel like a burden or whatever, but you’re not. I’ve made mine and Sammy's breakfasts and packed our lunches since I could reach the stove, and I was a tall kid. Whenever Ellen worked nights, I made dinner for Sam, Bobby, Jo, and me. It’s no trouble at all doing the same for you. I like doing it. I _want_ to do it. So just lemme take care of you, alright?”

His cheeks heat from the slip of tongue and grow even redder as Cas responds with his familiar soul-searching stare. Castiel’s lips part, then close again, and he looks as if he’s waging some silent, internal battle for two minutes solid. The air continues to thicken between them until Dean’s forced to look away lest his lower brain take renewed interest in the proceedings and get him arrested for indecent exposure. Then he turns and—“Oof!”—Dean grunts as a blur of red tackles him into the row of vegetables behind him.

“What the—”

Charlie bounces back on the balls of her feet, a captivating smile stretching her face. It’s infectious to such a degree that he feels his own lips tug against his will, but her attention shifts before he can speak again.

“Is this who I think it is?”

Despite the confusion in his eyes, Cas returns her smile with an awkward one of his own and allows Charlie to drag him into an even more awkward bone-crushing hug, her skinny arms wrapped tightly around his much larger frame. She steps back, holding him at arm's length to get a good look at him.

“Hello, um…” he pauses, glancing at Dean questioningly.

Voice teasing, she asks, “Aren’t you gonna introduce me, fair handmaiden?”

"Your Highness," Dean says, performing an exaggerated bow. Cas gives him a weird look, which he shrugs off. “Cas, this my friend—”

“ _Best_ friend!”

“—Charlie.”

Cas' smile immediately softens at the edges. “Dean has told me much about you. It's always a pleasure to meet his friends.” The statement tugs at Dean’s heart, and he can’t help the fond glance he gives the other man in return.

Still grinning broadly, she gives the two of them an unnervingly knowing look Dean doesn’t like one bit. “You weren’t kidding, he really is dreamy. You know, for a guy.” Her head cocks curiously to one side. “Weird, though. Thought you’d be shorter.”

Dean barks out a strained laugh, eyes flitting nervously between Charlie and Cas. Cas tilts his head and squints. His mouth opens, but before he can question her Dean grabs her by the elbow.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?” He steers her away, pulling her further down the aisle. Then, in a hushed tone, “Dude, what the fuck?”

“What?”

“Dreamy?! When did I say—”

“At the Roadhouse? Oh, dude, you must have been more wasted than I thought. You didn’t shut up about him once for at least an hour.” She clasps her hands over her heart and gazes into the distance over his shoulder as her face takes on the same look she has whenever Arwen’s on screen during their biannual Lord of the Rings marathons.

“‘I met an _angel_ ,’” she recites, slurring her words and fluttering her eyelashes to emphasize her point about his state of mind at the time. “‘Bluest eyes to ever blue, and oh my god, that _ass_! I swear, guys, it’s like he fell right out of heaven!’”

Somebody better call the fire department because yep, his face is actually, literally, engulfed in flames now. He didn’t realize just how much he’d spilled the first night he met Cas. Considering Charlie’s absolute lack of a filter and Jo’s teasing attitude, there’s no fucking way the entire town hasn’t heard about it. And he’s already sent out a mass-text inviting about two dozen people to Friday’s party.

_Son of a bitch!_

Grimacing, he chokes out, “Please, please, I am begging you. Jo, too. Don’t breathe a word of that to Cas.”

“Hold up." She stops him, hand held in the air and an incredulous look on her face. "You’re telling me _you_ , Dean _‘Sex Wizard’_ Winchester, haven’t tapped that?” He shakes his head, which is now feeling a little too light for comfort. Charlie’s mouth opens and closes several times before she whispers, “But you’re like, living together.”

“Yeah, but it’s… it’s not like that. We made this deal over the house—”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, Char, you got me. He’s hot. Catherine Bach hot. Young Harrison Ford hot. But we’re just roommates, I swear.”

“If you say so.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean”—she counts off each point with her fingers—“you moved in with the guy. You mention him every time we’re on the phone. I’ve seen you texting at work with this goofy smile on your face—which, woah, that’s _never_ happened before. Like, not once, man. Then today, the two of you are practically having eye-sex in the middle of the grocery store.” She shrugs, letting her arm drop. “I kinda assumed that you two were together already and you were just waiting to like, make it Facebook official.”

“Well, we’re not,” he snaps, loud enough that a quick glance in Cas’ direction shows he heard the outburst. _Shit_.

Charlie quirks her brow at him. She knows him well enough that she’s not offended, but she still doesn’t deserve that. And really, this is his fault, not hers. He hadn’t exactly been keeping her up on the up and up. The little time he’s spent at work this past week, he’s been distractedly daydreaming and staring at his phone, waiting for new alerts to come in. People were bound to notice, and he shouldn’t be surprised that one of the first is his closest and oldest friend.

Dean knows he can trust her with this. Just as much as he’d trust Sam, if not more so, because there are some things siblings _really_ don’t want or need to hear from each other. (Sexual conquests and people you fantasize about being pretty fucking high on the list. Quick mentions and congratulations are fine but for the love of all things holy, spare the details.)

“I’m sorry. This is all my fault.” He sighs, shoulders slumping, and scrubs at his face with a calloused palm. “Fuck, Char, what am I gonna do? I don’t want to make this weirder than I already have!”

“Already have?” She pauses, turning briefly to find Cas staring at them both. Flushing brightly, she offers a timid wave and faces Dean again. “What did you do?” she says in an accusatory tone.

He blanches. “Nothing.”

Her lips purse around a quiet, “Mmhmm.”

“Look, I don’t know if he’s uh, into me that way. Or dudes, period. What’s he gonna think if people assume we’re together? What if he thinks that’s what _I_ told everyone? What if he’s pissed, or creeped out, or _worse_?”

“ _Dean_. Calm down, take a breath. First of all, how do you know he doesn’t wanna do the horizontal tango if you haven’t asked? The way he looks at you… I mean, I don’t look at my ‘friends’ like that. I look at Scarlett Johansson as Black Widow like that. Or as herself, really, but man, all that _leather…_ ” She gets glassy-eyed for a minute before snapping out of it. “Second, and don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve always been kind of a player, dude. Since when are you _shy_?”

“I’m not—what—” he sputters, a little indignant. Dean Winchester is not _shy_. Silently folding her arms across her chest and tapping her foot, lips drawn into a thin line, Charlie goes full “done with his shit” mode. He gulps thickly, avoiding her gaze while he tries to wrap his tongue and his head around his next words. “I can’t. Cas is… he’s different.”

“Holy crap.” Her eyes grow comically wide. “ _Holy. Crap._ You like him. Like, you _like_ like him!”

“Charlie,” he groans. “We’re not in middle school anymore, you can’t say that. But… yeah, I do. A lot.”

“Huh.” Quietly ruminating, she chews her bottom lip for a moment. “So you’re worried about seriously falling for this guy, or you already have but you don’t want to screw up your friendship. Am I close?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Pouting, his eyes search the floor as though there’s a straightforward answer built into the grout lines in the tile. He traces one with the toe of his boot and shoves his hands in his pockets. “You know how I am with... relationships. What if I fuck it up? It’s… it’s too complicated.”

“Everyone screws up sometimes. That’s just part of being human.” At his pleading look, her arms fall to her sides. “Okay, fine.”

“Okay?”

“I won’t say anything. I’m your friend, Dean. Last thing I want is to see you get hurt. I’ll talk to Jo when I get home and make sure she doesn't say anything at the party.”

“Really? You’re the best, seriously.”

She does an exaggerated hair flip. “Yes, I am.” Then her face turns serious. “I can’t make guarantees for everyone else, though. And you’re gonna have to talk to him, eventually. Tell him how you feel. You know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Alright, cut it with the puppy eyes, dude.” She sighs, but her expression quickly turns devious. Never a good sign. “You owe me big time, though. Next tournament, you’re coming with.”

His answering eye-roll earns him a punch to the shoulder. He assumes a pained expression and mouths, “Ow,” to which she smirks.

“I can't go into battle without my handmaiden again! The Kingdom of Moondoor needs our combined strategic expertise to win back the territory we lost to the Shadow Orcs last month. So no excuses this time, capisce?”

“I capisce.” Grinning brightly, he pulls her into a warm embrace and mumbles, “Thank you.”

* * *

Dean’s mind is foggy, stuck in that comfortable, lazy place between consciousness and sleep as he slowly takes in his surroundings. It’s pitch black from what he can see through the curtains, the room still and dark save for the dim silver hue cast by the sliver of moonlight streaming through the curtain gap.

Rubbing the crust from his eyes, he fumbles for his phone with his unoccupied hand. He squints at it, blinking to clear away the haze from his eyes and groans when he finds it’s only four in the morning.

It’s about two hours before he has to get up for work; he’d planned to go in a little early so he could get out in time to help prepare for the party that evening. The house is silent under the relaxing _swoosh_ of the ceiling fan, so he figures something in his dream must have startled him awake. Wouldn’t be the first time.

He closes his eyes, allowing the white noise to coax him to sleep once more, and that’s when he hears—

_Crying?_

Dragging himself upright, he groans again at the ache in his spine. Ugh, he's getting old.

“Cas?” he murmurs, reaching out for the other man’s shoulder.

His back is to Dean, and even in the faint light, he can see Cas is curled in a tight ball. Cas trembles beneath his fingertips, skin covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat as he sobs and whimpers. He pulls, trying to turn him over, but he won’t budge. Shifting a few inches forward, he leans over Cas to see his face. He’s still asleep.

_A nightmare?_

Dean shakes his shoulder a little, whispering his name again. “Dude… wake up.”

Cas shoots up with a gasp, almost smacking him in the chin with his forehead. Dean jerks away, palms up in a placating gesture.

“Wha—Dean?” Cas croaks. His voice is groggy and rough, expression distressed.

“Uh, I think you were having a bad dream, man.”

“I—oh.” Cas scrubs both hands down his face, then stares at the damp palms in disbelief. He slowly turns them over, digging his fingers into the blanket across his thighs. “I’m sorry to have woken you.”

“‘s okay. I get them too sometimes.” He rubs his stiff neck and yawns. “You um… you wanna talk about it?”

“No. I’m… I’ll be alright.” Cas lays down again, flat on his back, knees bent, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling as one hand sweeps the wet mass of hair back from his forehead. Dean props his head upon his hand, watching. It’s clear Cas is still shaken up; he can practically feel the melancholy and confusion emanating from the guy.

This could either be the dumbest decision Dean’s ever made, or the smartest, but fuck it, his hang-ups are his own. Cas needs him—or someone, at least—right now.

“Hey,” he says softly. “C’mere.”

Cas turns his head to look at him, eyes wide, but doesn’t move. “What?” Dean lays on his side and holds up the blanket, gesturing an invitation for Cas to scooch over. “Are you… are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

With that, Cas rolls toward him, body fitting perfectly along his side. He winds one arm beneath his neck to wrap around his shoulder, Cas’ head coming to rest upon Dean’s chest. Despite the sweat cooling in the air on his skin’s surface, Cas is almost feverishly hot.

The damp hair at his crown brush Dean’s nose, fluttering gently when he lets out a sigh and breathes in the familiar clean, earthy scent he’s become so addicted to. He regrets having worn a shirt again tonight, wishing he could feel more skin against his, but this isn’t about him. This moment is all for Cas.

Cas reaches for Dean’s other hand, lacing their fingers together right over his heart which flutters rapidly like a trapped bat inside his ribs. “Dean…”

“Yeah?”

“I—” he hesitates. “Goodnight.”

Dean yawns again, pulling Cas even tighter against him. Hopefully not for the last time. He listens, waiting for Cas’ breathing to even out. Then whispers, “G’nite,” into his soft curls and falls asleep with a smile.

* * *

Throughout the week, Castiel had scraped every inch of dated, peeling wallpaper from the house and prepared the walls for fresh coats of paint.

They’d agreed upon a warm palette Castiel found online of five complementary colors in three shades each, though they didn’t purchase all of them because as Dean said, “why the hell would we need fifteen damn colors? Just pick your favorites.” So he selected ivory as their primary wall color throughout the house, the six varying shades of blue and green to alternate on accent walls, and one dovetail grey for the baseboards and crown moulding.

In anticipation for the party, they spent the latter half of that Wednesday painting downstairs. A job which Castiel finished on Thursday, much to Dean’s awe and surprise when he came back from work. Already, it looks like a new house, and with the amount of work the two of them are putting into it, it’s beginning to feel like _home_. Now, however, Castiel grips the kitchen island in an absolute panic because in less than an hour, their first actual guests will arrive. Some of whom he’s met, but most he hasn’t. A consistent mantra of “what ifs” keeps running through his mind, ratcheting his heart rate into a near-painful staccato rhythm.

Last night, after a perfect, relaxing dinner with Dean, his brother had called for what’s become weekly check-ins. Gabe would never admit it out loud, but Castiel knows it’s got little to nothing to do with the house and everything to do with him being in a new town, surrounded by strangers, completely out of his element. At first, there’d been a protective edge to Gabriel’s tone when he asked about Dean, one Castiel hadn’t heard since coming out to his family during college. Didn’t take long until it turned teasing.

“So,” Gabe said, drawing the sound out long enough Castiel knew an uncomfortable question lay at the end. “How’re things going with the new fuckboy?”

“Gabe!” He covered the phone with the hand not holding it and glanced at Dean. The other man stood at the sink not three feet away, scrubbing the lasagna pan with a concentrated frown that made the corners of Castiel's lips twitch. He told him he’d be back and stepped out onto the deck, the sound of his brother’s crowing vibrating through the receiver. “He’s not my ‘fuckboy’,” he hissed.

“But you wish he was.”

Castiel sighed, pinching his brow. “I don’t want to talk about Dean with you.”

“I’m not even there to see it and I know you've got the hots for him. You’re not exactly subtle, Cassie.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. There’s no point in initiating anything.”

“Nobody’s sayin’ you have to marry the guy. Bump uglies, get your knob slobbed, take a trip to pound town, have some fun for once!”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You love me.”

“...”

“Your silence is telling, baby bro.”

“I… I can’t do that. Not with him.”

“Huh. You really care about him.”

“What should I do?” Castiel whined. He hated that he still needed that, that direct orders relieved the burden of decision-making from his shoulders.

“Quit your job and get your man?”

He leaned back on one palm, staring up into the bruised, purpling sky as the sun slipped down past the distant treeline. “You say that like it’s that easy.”

“Because it is that easy. Look, bro, when’s the last time you did something for yourself? Just because you wanted to? I know you want this. You know it. So what’s holding you back?”

“What if…” He sat forward, picking at a loose thread at the hem of his shirt. “What if he doesn’t want me? And even if he does, what if his family doesn’t like me? What if the—”

“Slow your roll, kiddo! You’ve met his family. Have any of them given you the impression they don’t like you?”

He paused. “No. They’ve been very welcoming.”

“Okay, so scratch that off as paranoia. As for Dean-o, what about that whole shower thing? You said he checked you out.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure anymore. I’ve tried flirting, but you know how well that usually works for me. There are times I think maybe he’s interested, and then he… I don’t know. Freezes up.”

“Has he done anything to make you think he _doesn’t_ want you?”

“...No, not exactly.”

“Hmm. Maybe he’s in the closet. You’re in a small town in the Midwest, can you blame him?”

“I can’t be someone’s dirty secret.”

“I hate to say this, but you’re gonna have to figure this out before you lose the chance.”

“I know,” he breathed.

“Hmm. Well… hey, if it comes down to it you could always sell the house and come live with me.”

“But—”

“Screw Boston, and screw Michael,” Gabe snapped. “He may be our brother but he’s also the world's biggest bag of dicks, and Dad? He’s gone. You don’t owe anyone a damn thing.” Castiel’s throat closed around a pained whimper. Then, softly, “I’m just tired of seeing you miserable.”

He’d agreed to think about it and hung up, then sat, pensive and lost in said thoughts until Dean came outside asking if he was alright. He deflected, as usual, and Dean’s expression told him exactly how little he believed it. But he didn’t push.

Today, Castiel plasters on a calm, solemn expression to mask his turmoil. Once again, Dean sees right through it.

“What’s going on?” Dean moves cautiously toward him, laying a gentle palm on his shoulder from behind. Castiel sags into the touch with a forlorn sigh.

“I’m nervous.”

“Hey…” Dean turns him away from the island and steps closer, drawing Castiel into his arms. “Is this okay?” he whispers.

Castiel responds with a wordless hum, hands fisting in the flannel at Dean’s back, the other man’s arms tightening around his neck and shoulders. He relaxes, leaning on the counter, and melts into the comforting embrace. Pulling the other man flush against him, bowed legs spread on either side of his, he smiles and buries his face into the crook of Dean’s neck and shoulder. Dean’s body is a warm, solid line against Castiel’s own, and with barely two inches separating them in height, they fit together like pieces of the same puzzle. Truthfully, he can’t remember the last time someone held him the way Dean does. It’s completely platonic but no less intimate, soothing, and Castiel wishes they could remain like this forever.

_This is more than okay._

“Cas...” Dean says, voice breaking. Castiel hears the click of his throat, feels his pulse against his cheek, the movement as Dean swallows. “You’re gonna be fine.”

He shakes his head, his scruff catching on the skin above Dean’s collar. Dean shivers in response. “I’m awkward,” he mutters, lips hovering above warm flesh. Castiel is sorely tempted to press them down, kiss the line of his neck, savor the salt of him on his tongue.

Even fresh from a shower, the combined scents of oil and metal linger on the man’s skin—evidence of his profession—but they aren’t unpleasant. Above that, he detects leather from Baby’s seats, the crisp notes of Dean’s soap, and the heavier wood, musk, and sweet spice of cologne. God, he smells divine; like rich, finely aged bourbon and apple pie savored around a balmy, crackling fireplace on a cold winter’s night. He inhales deeply, gently nuzzling at the hinge of Dean’s jaw.

Dean chuckles weakly, the sound vibrating through Castiel’s chest. “Maybe a little, but not in a bad way. Once they get to know you, they’ll love you...” he trails off.

Reluctantly, Castiel peels himself away to peer up at Dean with curious eyes. His freckled cheeks are pink, his lips freshly wetted and glistening in the light, and Castiel sees only sincerity reflected in his gaze. Magnetized, he tilts his head and tries to memorize the sight, pulse hammering beneath the starched white cotton blend of his shirt, blood rushing in his ears. Hot puffs of Dean’s breath feather across his face with the cinnamon-mint scent of his toothpaste, so close he can almost taste it. He leans in—

And the doorbell rings.

Dean groans, forehead dropping to Castiel’s for a brief second before he extricates himself from his grasp and strides purposefully toward the front door. Castiel exhales in a rush, only now realizing he’d been holding his breath. They haven’t spoken about last night. Part of him fears if they do, this physical development to their friendship will cease, so he doesn’t press the matter. 

_Even if this is all I ever get from Dean, I'll take it._

The thought doesn't bring him much comfort.

Hearing voices from the foyer, he quickly pours a glass of water from the tap, chugging it to calm his aching throat. Some dribbles down his chin. He wipes it away roughly with the back of his forearm and glances around the kitchen.

A full spread of snacks decorates the countertop surrounding the sink; chips and chopped vegetables with homemade dips, sliced fruit, salad mix, a charcuterie board full of meats and cheeses, trays of Dean’s famous sliders, and several varieties of fresh-baked tarts (or as Dean calls them, “mini pies”). The old fridge is stocked with beer, and on the counter directly beside it, they’d set out an assortment of liquor and mixers, from rum and Coke to vodka and orange juice, to whiskey and Sprite, and everything between that they could think of, along with a huge stack of red solo cups. Castiel still isn’t sure they have enough, but Dean insisted repeatedly that people are bringing more food.

He takes a deep breath, puts his cup down, and pushes off the counter. Making his way toward the foyer, he smiles at the sight of Sam and Dean bickering beside a petite blonde with a sweet face and kind smile who he assumes is Jessica.

The younger Winchester balances a large, covered bowl between his hip and the crook of his arm. “It’s Mediterranean quinoa salad, Dean.” 

“Whatever it is, I’m not touching it.”

“You know what, just because it isn’t a heart attack on a plate doesn’t mean it isn’t good!”

Dean scoffs, about to respond when he spots Castiel standing by the stairs and waves him over. “Hey! C’mere.”

“Hello, Sam,” he says, this time instigating a quick hug and pat on the back. “I’m so pleased you could make it. And this lovely lady must be your fiance?” She takes his offered hand with a brilliant smile. He bows neatly, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. 

“Such a gentleman. You both could learn a thing or two from him,” she says with a musical laugh. Castiel is already enamored.

“What? Hey, I’m a perfect gentleman!” Sam argues. 

Dean simply rolls his eyes and wraps an arm around Castiel’s shoulders, tugging him to his side. “Yeah yeah, got ourselves a real _Casanova_ here.” Castiel glares half-heartedly and gets a wicked grin in response. 

Sam points at a large box nestled beneath the side table by the door. “For you guys.”

“Oh,” Castiel starts, “you didn’t have to—”

“It’s a waffle iron, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Dean.” Sam’s lips purse. “Aren't you the one who told me everyone needs a waffle iron?”

Dean laughs. “Awesome. Well, come on in. Sammy, you know where the kitchen is, so make yourselves at home. I think I see someone pulling in.”

The introductions fly quickly from there. Bobby and Ellen are the next to show, with Jo and Charlie right behind. They greet Castiel with tight hugs and genuine smiles that fill his heart with warmth and calm his nerves a bit more. Meg arrives with Krissy, the waitress Castiel had seen that first night at the diner, and twins Max and Alicia who run a thrift shop in town which Dean calls a “New-Agey tourist trap”. There’s a man named Rufus, who arrives alone and merely grunts at the both of them before wandering in to locate Bobby. A sweet, bubbly, gangly man (a dentist, he's told) named Garth and his wife. Ash, from the motel, brings two other men Castiel has yet to meet who quickly help themselves to drinks and food.

Several more of Dean’s employees and friends also attend; Benny, Ezekiel, Jesse and Cesar, a woman named Pamela who gives Castiel an eerie, contemplative look upon entering and grabs Dean's ass (he tries not to burn holes into her skull after that, but it's a struggle). Becky, Dean’s secretary, who is perky and more talkative than he's frankly comfortable with (and apparently has had a crush on Dean's now spoken-for brother since high school), and finally, Jody and Donna, who Dean informs him are the town’s sheriff and deputy sheriff. It’s an eclectic bunch, much to Castiel’s surprise, and all are exceedingly friendly and humble. Several even come bearing gifts, which steadily form a pile in the foyer beside Sam's.

“House-warming presents,” Dean tells him, eyes twinkling.

Through it all, Dean remains by his side. His presence brings stability and comfort, as though he knows how lost Castiel would feel without him there, and once the initial introductions are out of the way, Dean guides him back to the kitchen. There, they find every inch of available counter space filled to the brim with food, everything from bar-b-que ribs to buffalo wings, pasta salad to finger sandwiches, quesadillas to casseroles.

Dean rubs his hands together happily and says, “Dude, we’re gonna have leftovers for _days_ ,” like they just won the lottery. It makes Castiel smile.

He feels a little aimless as a host with everyone already having poured their own drinks and helped themselves to the food, stacked high on the styrofoam plates he’d left out. Again, Dean reassures him that this is normal, and not to worry. He offers him a cup of whiskey, which Castiel takes with a soft, pleased smile, and they pick their way through the food side-by-side.

Everyone is exceedingly kind and generous. Several of their guests approach him in the kitchen with praise for the work they've done, especially the new color scheme (to which Dean gives Castiel all the credit), and ask what other plans they have. Dean's grin is wide and proud throughout, his gaze full of affection when he says, "Cas is too humble. He did most of the work on the interior," and Castiel’s heart flutters wildly in response. He suppresses the sensation with a sip of his drink. Or attempts to, at the very least.

Dean’s family and friends all treat him like one of their own, and the only person who casts him a sideways glance is Pamela, who Dean informs him is the town “psychic”. It rattles him a bit, what she might intuit to give him those stares, but he ignores the feeling and steers clear of her as best he can just in case.

Drinks and plates in hand, Castiel and Dean work their way into the living room and find Sam with a group beside the fireplace.

“Eh, screw it. They’re gonna do it whether I’m on duty or not. Long as they don’t do anything stupid or dangerous, I don’t care,” Jody says.

“Who’s doing what now?” Dean asks, sidling up to his brother.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Triple A’s out back smoking.”

Castiel squints at the group. “Smoking what?”

Jess giggles. Jody and Donna grin and shake their heads with looks of fond exasperation.

“Pot, dude,” Dean responds. Ah. Castiel indulged his fair share in college, so at least this is one thing he’s not completely inept with discussing. Though it does seem a little rude for them to do so at his home without asking, he doesn’t really mind since Jody has no plan to break up the party.

Castiel sips his drink and casually asks, “Do you partake, Dean?”

“Wh—what?” Dean sputters, eyes wide.

“What?” He shrugs, looking at Sam and Jess. “You’re both fresh from college, and in California, no less. I assume you have at least tried it.”

Jess answers before Sam can, “This one here made it through all of _one bowl_ freshman year and thought he could move things with his mind.”

The younger Winchester’s brow puckers, lips drawing into a thin line. “I wasn’t _that_ much of a lightweight.”

Dean hunkers over, wheezing with laughter, supporting himself with a hand on the small of Castiel’s back. Dean seems to be touching him more than usual today, something he hadn’t expected the man to do with others around. It leaves Castiel with a confusing mixture of warmth, uncertainty, and longing.

Before long, they’re squeezed onto the couch, pressed together from shoulder to knee even though there's a six-inch gap between Dean and Charlie, and Castiel thinks he may spontaneously combust. Jo comes in from the kitchen carrying two cups and doesn’t hesitate to perch on Charlie’s lap, an arm slung nonchalantly around the other woman’s neck.

 _Perhaps this family is just... very affectionate,_ he muses.

Dean and Charlie embark upon a heated debate about which is the best Star Trek captain. Dean’s team Kirk, and Charlie’s team Piccard, Castiel has no idea what either of them are talking about, and from the sound of it, this is an argument they’ve exhausted on more than one occasion. When Dean’s arm ends up on the back of the couch behind Castiel’s head he feels dizzy with the urge to lean into him.

“So Dean, what have you been up to? Feels like we never see you anymore,” the blonde says.

He gestures vaguely. Implying the house, Castiel assumes. “Guess I’ve been pretty busy.”

Charlie and Jo shoot each other a look. Jo’s barely holding back a smirk, lips parting like she wants to say something until Charlie gives a barely perceptible shake of her head. Jo pouts and says, “Mom’s planning dinner next week, wants all of us to get together.”

“Yeah?” Dean grins. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

 _We?_ Castiel stares at Dean’s profile, surprised. _He wants me to have dinner with his family?_

“Oh, and I’m bringing the karaoke machine to the Cheesecake Festival this weekend. You know what that means!”

Dean groans. Castiel opens his mouth to remind his friend that the following Friday, he’ll be on a plane when a sudden sharp pain squeezes his heart. He takes a shuddering breath, curling in on himself. Thankfully the others are too distracted now to notice his agonized expression. Between his prior nerves, Dean's increasingly affectionate touches, the alcohol, strange glances their companions keep giving them and each other, and the butterflies flapping away in his gut each time he catches Dean’s eyes on him, it’s too much.

_I need air._

“Oh come on!” Charlie exclaims.

“You know I don’t sing, Charles.”

“That’s bull,” Jo says, snorting. “You sing all the time. When you’re drunk, or in the car, or the shower, or—”

“I get it, I get it! You win.”

If he gets up now, Dean will ask him what’s wrong, and he isn’t ready to answer that. So he waits, participating in the conversation just enough to appear normal until Dean leaves to visit the restroom. The moment he’s out of view, Castiel rises and excuses himself.

Making his way outside, he’s confronted with the infamous trio of stoners sitting off to one corner, talking amongst themselves. He takes a large breath of the skunky air bleeding out into the crystal clear obsidian night, staring at the neglected garden beyond the faint ring of deck lights. It’s been sitting so long in disrepair, but hints of its former beauty remain in the outlined maze of plots leading to a dilapidated gazebo, the vines winding through slotted trellises over each section with empty planters still dangling at symmetrical intervals. He’s daydreaming about the hidden possibilities that lie within, what flowers he’d like to one day see blossom there again, about perhaps building an apiary and a greenhouse on the land further out, when the group finally notices his presence.

“Hey! I know you!” Ash says, grinning lazily. “Dude from the Lodge.” The two men sitting beside Ash on the porch steps look a bit wary beneath their glassy-eyed, genial smiles. 

“Yes. I’m… Cas,” he says, trying out the nickname for himself. He smiles, liking the way it sounds, and offers his hand to each of them. Though they’d technically met at the door a couple of hours before, they hadn’t been formally introduced as with the other guests. 

“Dean’s roommate right?” Andy says. “You uh, you want a hit, man?”

He thinks of refusing, but it’s technically his party, right? He can afford to live a little, as his brother frequently reminds him, so he takes the proffered joint from Andy’s fingers. He puffs once and holds it, exhaling slowly as he sits beside the others.

Aaron leans toward him and asks, “Where are you from?”

“Boston,” he replies, smiling sheepishly. He takes another hit, staring down at the rolled paper between his forefinger and thumb as he flicks the ashes onto the step below his feet to reveal the cherry-red flare where it's lit. “You know, I haven’t done this since college. I’m surprised the local law enforcement is so blasé about it.”

They all laugh. Andy says, “Jody’s known all of us since we were kids. Long as we aren’t making trouble for anyone or doing like, hard stuff, she leaves us alone. People here aren’t as uptight as you’d think, city slicker.”

That makes him wonder what other misconceptions he may have about Eden. He saw the way Donna leaned into Jody’s personal space, the obvious fondness in their shared glances. Jo nestled comfortably on Charlie’s lap on the couch for the better part of an hour, humming along to the music from Dean’s vinyls during lulls in their banter. Jesse and Cesar holding hands while sitting at the kitchen table across from Benny, Meg, and Ezekiel.

Perhaps it’s the combination of alcohol and marijuana in his system, but curiosity gets the better of him and he finally asks, “What about… is the community accepting of, you know...” he trails off, unsure how exactly to word it.

Aaron snorts. “Guess you noticed the crowd inside, huh.” 

Castiel blanches, taking the joint again. He gives the men a conspiratorial nod.

“Most don’t care. Ash here is straight, but I’m bi, and Andy’s pan.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Aaron shrugs, completely unfazed as he takes his hit.

“I didn’t expect to find so many people comfortably out in a small town like this. Um. No offense.”

He’s a little worried he’s insulting these men by stereotyping their town, but fortunately, they seem to take it in stride. “As they say, safety in numbers. Birds of a feather flock together. Something like that,” Andy tells him, giggling.

Aaron nods, adding, “I mean, yeah, there’s still a lot who hold on to outdated notions. Mostly the older folks. But it’s not as bad as you think. Plus, Jody wouldn’t put up with any bullshit.”

“That’s very good to know.”

Aaron gives him a lingering sideways glance, one hand flat on the deck behind Cas. When did he get so close? “So... what about you?”

“Oh.” He exhales, smoke billowing from his lungs, and passes the joint again. “I’m—”

“The fuck are you doing?”

He turns to see Dean standing behind them at the opposite end of the deck and feels his heart expand against his will. In fairness, his will isn’t all that strong at the moment. The weed has done a number on his inhibitions already, and not caring feels kinda fantastic.

Dean’s expression is a combination of disbelief, irritation, and as his eyes flicker between Castiel and Aaron, something darker Cas can’t quite put his finger on. Upon standing, his head feels light, legs heavy, and a laugh bubbles up from his chest. It bursts from his lips, brazen and uncontainable, his abdominal muscles clenching and eyes watering from the force of it. Dean steps forward, concerned, and grasps his shoulder to guide him away from the others. His skin tingles beneath the weight of those thick, calloused fingers. Eyes slipping briefly closed, the sensation vibrates down and through his chest. Or maybe that's from the humming. 

“Dude, you okay? I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you!” He shoots a glare over Castiel's shoulder at the other men and tightens his grip on his shoulder. It seems almost… possessive? Perhaps he's over-analyzing the situation. _Hmm, Dean's eyes are beautiful in the moonlight._ Looking at them now makes him feel _things_. He'd really love to go inside and find an empty room.

He sighs. “I’m fine.” Wiping his eyes, he relaxes into Dean’s side, relishing the man’s body heat in the mild chill of the night.

Dean’s hand slips from his shoulder and comes to rest against his hip. “Are you _high_?”

He hums again, grinning. “Probably, yes.”

“Come on, I’m taking you inside.” Dean pulls him into the empty covered section of the porch.

“Dean…”

“What?”

“Are you angry with me?”

Dean shakes his head. “No. Just, I dunno. Worried about you, I guess. You seemed kinda off, then you disappeared, and next thing I know you’re out here getting stoned with these guys...”

“I’m sorry.” His gaze drops to the deck at their feet. “I just had to get away for a minute.”

“Is this…” Dean pauses, cheeks flushing as he rubs his nape. “Is this because of last night? The nightmare? Or what we—”

“No.” He doesn't want to think about that right now and feels his buzz slipping with the discomfort.

“Cas, talk to me, man.”

“I’m talking to you right now.”

“Enough of the literal bullshit, you know what I mean!” Dean growls, and Castiel’s heart skips a beat, fingers curling into his palms.

“Dean—”

“What’s going on with you?”

“Gabriel was right, okay!” he blurts.

Dean stares, stunned. “What?”

“He’s always right. I hate my ‘shithole’ apartment. I hate my job. I hate my boss. I hate following orders, doing what everyone else wants, and never what _I_ want. I’m tired of being alone, having no one. Besides Gabe, my family has always treated me like a fuckup, a defective tool, like it’d be better if I weren’t around. I was never good enough”—he blinks back tears—“I’ll never be good enough. But my brother’s so far away, and I’m always alone, and now my father is dead and I don’t want to go back to that, I don’t, I _can’t_ —”

“Cas...” Dean steps forward and tugs him into his arms, folding them around him in a fierce hug. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” His fingers comb soothingly through Castiel’s hair as he breathes soft shushing noises. He doesn’t know how long they stay like that before Dean speaks again, voice low and gentle this time. “You know, a wise man once told me, ‘family don’t end in blood’, but it doesn’t start there either. Family cares about you, Cas, not what you can do for them. Family’s there through the good, bad, all of it. They got your back even when it hurts.

“Gabe, he sounds like a good guy. But your dad, and Michael? All those other assholes back there? They don’t deserve you.” Castiel chokes back a sob, face pressed into Dean’s neck. “Maybe this is your chance to do things differently. To have a fresh start, a new life. I know we haven’t known each other long, man, but you’re...” he pauses, takes a breath. “You're like family to me, Cas. I just… want you to know that. You’re not alone.”

Eyes stinging, he fights against his quivering lip with a harsh bite, heart brimming with an overwhelming juxtaposition of emotion as though it’s simultaneously breaking and bursting. No one’s ever spoken to him this way, treated him like this, held him so protectively, as if he's something precious—not fragile, but _important_ , and he knows at this moment that he’s in real trouble. The feelings he’d been trying to shove into the “purely lust” category all this time, the ones he’d only been capable of examining in spurts so he could then bury them down to ignore afterward are spilling over in waves and it’s all he can do to ride the tide and pray he survives.

It doesn’t make any sense. Maybe it doesn’t need to. Exhilarating and terrifying, it fills him from the inside, hot and bright as the birth of a star, spreading outward through his limbs until every inch of him vibrates, glows, with the force of it. Castiel can’t pull away from Dean, and doesn’t want to. Not ever.

_I love him._

“Dean…” he murmurs, holding him firmly. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. Um… we still probably have an hour or so till people start clearing out, though. Are you gonna be okay? Do you want to go lay down or something?”

“No.” He shakes his head, nuzzling closer. “I want to stay with you.”

Dean grips him tight, breathes shakily in their shared space before clearing his throat. “Then stay.”

* * *

He never would have pegged Dean for a cuddler, but he couldn’t have been more wrong because the following morning, Castiel wakes to a firm body plastered to his sweating back. While it was grounding the previous night, a soothing balm for all the stress he’s been under and conflicted emotions which culminated in a nightmare he can’t even remember, it’s bordering on uncomfortable right now, almost sweltering.

 _And_ his bladder is aching for relief.

At some point last night, the man entangled their limbs even further than when they fell asleep. The leg Castiel’s laying on is trapped, pinned against the mattress by Dean’s bare thigh, and somehow his arm has wiggled its way under Castiel’s body to join the other across his chest. He can feel a rough, unshaved cheek between his shoulder blades and the gentle puffs of Dean’s breath on his slick skin. About to burst, he tries to squirm free. Dean clings even tighter, letting out a frustrated growl. He sounds like an angry bear.

Ugh, he is so stupidly in love with this man.

It takes a while to pry Dean’s arms apart, but he manages to maneuver his pillow into his former spot. Dean latches onto it immediately, burying his face into it, and mumbles happily.

Castiel doesn’t feel up to making the trek all the way to “his” bathroom, so he uses Dean’s, which is right beside his—their?—room. He shuffles out to check on Claire, who’s perched, alert and tail twitching, on one of the windowsills in the sitting room with the bookshelves, staring at birds or something. Shrugging at her utter lack of interest in him, he pours food into her dish in the other room and goes downstairs to brew coffee.

When he returns, Dean is, surprisingly, still asleep. Leaning on the doorway, he smiles, sipping his coffee and watching for a moment. His eyes fall to the floor next to his side of the bed where his briefcase sits against the wall, kept there for easy access when he needs to check his email. Something he’s been admittedly lax about for the last several days. He sets the coffee mug on the nightstand and fishes out his laptop, then sits on the bed up against the headboard. Dean flinches from the disturbance and Castiel freezes, but all the man does is grumble and roll onto his back, the pillow still firmly clutched to his chest.

He chuckles affectionately and flips open his laptop. His inbox reveals an email from a store in Sioux Falls about the appliances he and Dean ordered, though it seems they won’t all be shipped out at once. Looks like they’ll be doing laundry at Bobby’s again this week because they found out very quickly that the ancient washer and dryer left here by his grandparents were more prone to flooding the house or setting it on fire than cleaning and drying their clothes. Even with all Dean’s mechanical expertise, there’s only so much he can do when the replacement parts are near impossible to find or safely jerry-rig.

Grinning foolishly at the memory of that day, he looks from the computer in his lap to the snoring man beside him. Bathed in the soft morning light and gentleness of sleep, Dean looks so peaceful, the lines of his face smoothed away and the small curve of his mouth giving him a youthful glow too often marred by whatever in his past troubles him in the light of day. Things he hides behind that mask, the one Castiel wishes all the time he could rip away—not to deprive Dean of its safety but to spare Dean the need for it.

Or, perhaps selfishly, to take its place. Become Dean’s shelter from the storm.

His eyes trace the sharp jut of Dean’s jaw, sweep across freckle-dusted cheekbones, linger on the thin gap between his plump, parted lips. He watches as Dean’s contented expression flickers with a quiet groan, brow furrowing against some annoyance permeating his dream. Instantly, and without thought, the hand closest to Dean bridges the scant few inches between them and cards through his hair. After all the comfort Dean has brought him, it’s the least he can do to return it.

Within seconds, Dean is calm once more, virtually purring from Castiel’s ministrations. It brings a fond smile to his face.

_Then stay._

He reluctantly withdraws his hand, returning his attention to the screen. His jaw clenches as a new feeling settles over him; determination. Navigating his cursor to the little plus sign in the upper left corner of the page, he clicks “Compose”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:    
>  Mild NSFW (referenced panty kink, non-explicit  
> masturbation)   
>  Briefly referenced alcoholism and past physical abuse (by John).   
>  Marijuana
> 
>   
> This chapter is unbeta'd.
> 
> WELP this one was a doozy! I've been editing this for what feels like a lifetime and every time I touch it I keep adding more SO in an attempt to retain some semblance of self-control I'm finally yeeting it out into the Ao3 void. Then again, knowing me... within twenty-four hours I'll be back at it. 
> 
> If anyone is curious, this is the [paint color palette](https://www.etsy.com/listing/838658308/sherwin-williams-complimentary-warm?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=warm+color+palette&ref=sr_gallery-1-2) I chose for the house interior.
> 
> Next up - it's Cas's turn to take care of Dean, and there's a shift in their relationship. Thoughts/theories? Let me know in the comments! And as always, thanks so much for reading.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check end notes for content warnings (potential spoilers).

Cas braced himself for this from the moment he hit “send,” yet that doesn’t prevent an icy shudder of trepidation from trickling down his spine when his phone rings Monday morning. He takes a breath. Wipes a paint-stained hand on the jeans now designated for household chores and digs the phone of his pocket, warily lifting it to his ear.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

No, “Hello, Castiel,” no, “how are you holding up since our father’s _funeral_ ,” not even the mildest of attempts to feign a concerned eldest sibling. Castiel knew better than to expect otherwise, but it hurts nonetheless. This is the way things have always been, always will be. He doesn’t even have to ask the reason for the call.

“I thought my letter to Adler made that abundantly clear.” He sighs and rises, stretching stiff legs and groaning with relief as his spine cracks. “I quit.”

“With no notice? I would have thought you’d learned some semblance of tact by now.”

Castiel shrugs to the empty room. Dean is at work, Claire in her favorite spot in the window chattering at birds, and he’d chosen to keep busy by finishing the walls on the second floor. “It hardly seemed worth flying to Boston for two weeks just to come back.”

“So it’s as Gabriel told me,” Michael replies, voice dripping with disdain. “You’re still in South Dakota.”

“Yes.”

“And what, praytell, is more important in that little hick town than your _career_?”

Castiel casts a side-eye at the stale, cold coffee sitting on the plastic-covered end table a foot away. It’s nine in the morning, late enough for him to be alert but early enough that he is nowhere near ready for this conversation. Not that his entire blood volume in caffeine could ever truly prepare him for it, anyway. He pinches the bridge of his nose, only belatedly wondering if he’s smearing paint on his face.

“I fail to see how that is any business of yours.”

“Excuse me?” Michael snarls, slipping slightly from his normal clipped, polished diction. “Have you forgotten all I’ve done for you? You were _nothing_ , Castiel. _No one_. A _failure_. You’ve gotten where you are now because of me, and you have the _gall_ to tell me this is none of my business?”

Leave it to Michael to hit where it hurts most. “I’m not your _project_. Did you ever once stop to think that maybe I didn’t just need a job? That maybe I needed a _brother_?”

Michael makes an ugly sound in the back of his throat, something between a scoff and a growl. “Were you not my brother, I would have left you on the street.”

Castiel lets out a bitter, mirthless laugh. “Right.”

“Those people will never accept you. See reason, Castiel.”

“They’ve treated me better in the few weeks I’ve been here than you have in the last thirty-four years!”

“This is about a man, isn’t it?”

“ _What_?” His fist curls at his side, jaw locking in a hard line.

He doesn’t know what Michael knows, whether he’s been keeping tabs on him, is simply guessing, or prodding in the hopes of reopening an old wound, but this is taking it too far. Perhaps Dean played a part, Castiel is not dense enough to deny the truth of it. He wants to be with Dean in every way the man will allow him to be, even if it’s only as friends. But leaving his job, leaving that life behind, was a decision Castiel had wanted to make for a long time. It had just never occurred to him before that he _could_ , that there was more out there for him than the role he was designated by his family.

“Don’t be a fool, Castiel. You’re setting yourself up for disappointment and rejection, and if you go down this road, I will not be there to catch you when you inevitably fall again.”

“It’s _my_ life, and I’ll do what I want with it.”

“Ah, yes, and remember how well that worked out for you last time.”

This is his brother; his former lifeline, once upon a time. The man he'd looked to for answers to all the world's questions, the man who in all honesty held a larger presence, was more of a father to him, than their own. Castiel has spent far too long excusing Michael's behavior, his treatment of him, of Gabriel, of everyone else on this goddamn planet as scum beneath his boot. As though they’re ants to be toyed with and crushed at his leisure, for his pleasure, _just_ _because he can_.

From that point, he tunes out whatever else is being said on the other end of the phone. Michael’s condescending invalidation and emotional manipulation has crossed more lines than Castiel can count and he is _so fucking done._

“Michael…” He drops the phone from his ear, holds the receiver close to his lips, and growls, tone low enough to scrape pavement, _“Fuck. You._ ”

He doesn’t wait for a response, ending the call immediately. He clutches the phone in a grip so tight his knuckles creak and bleach, nails digging shallow grooves into the flesh of his palm around the edge of its black metal surface, and barely resists the intense, overwhelming temptation to heave it at the wall. Instead, he storms downstairs and raids the cabinets, salvaging a leftover bottle of Tennessee Honey from the housewarming party and takes several rough, burning gulps. The pale, sweet liquid inside is nearing the bottom, but there’s a half-full fifth of Wild Turkey, so he grabs that too, carrying both up to the bedroom where he sags heavily against the wall until his ass hits the floor.

His heart sinks even lower.

Between swigs, he scrolls through his contacts and finds the number for his landlord. He cancels his apartment lease, agrees to pay the fee, then locates a moving company to go clear out his belongings and ship them to Eden. Not that he has much besides shoddy used furniture, but he does at least want his books, picture albums, and the art pieces he’s commissioned from Rowena over the years. With that in mind, he also places calls to her, Balthazar, and Hannah to notify them of his plan, much to their mixed delight, pride, and sorrow. He’ll wait to call Gabriel until he's calm (and sober) because… fuck, he loves his brother to the end of the earth and back but he absolutely cannot deal with his cheek right now. It’s far too soon for “I told you so’s”.

As Dean had said the other night, family means the people who support you through the bad times and the good, and now it’s more clear to him than ever who fits that mold and who does not. It hurts, a sharp stab to the chest that may heal in time but will surely leave a gaping wound until it eventually scars. A reminder of this moment, branded upon his heart, that he’ll carry with him forever. One more for the collection...

Dean comes home minutes, hours later, he can't tell. Finds him maudlin, barely coherent, having not moved an inch from the spot on the floor where he crumbled. The heat of his anger subsided long ago, left him cold, bereft. But Dean folds in around him, the warm press of his muscled shoulder against Castiel’s cheek a welcome comfort. He wants to bottle the feeling; it's more effective than booze has ever been.

His friend hefts him to his feet with a strained grunt and maybe Castiel is laughing, or crying, it's hard to... hard to think. His body is very heavy, his head fuzzy, and the room's lights are too bright, stinging against his eyelids. After a lot of fumbling, Dean manages to peel off the layers of sweaty, filthy clothing down to his briefs. Castiel shivers and clings. Dean lugs him to the bed, shoves a tall glass of water in his face, and plants his feet in front of Castiel with arms crossed over his chest and a pensive frown until he drinks the whole thing. Water drips down his chin, some landing on his naked thighs. He doesn't care enough to wipe it away.

“What happened?” Dean says roughly, the worry obvious in his eyes despite Castiel’s drunken state.

He tells Dean what he’s done in slurred, garbled words, or at least he tries. He's in that between place, sorta floating and sinking at once, sobbing numbly as he talks with snot running down, catching at the edge of his lip. Probably looks like a disgusting mess, but Dean just listens, expression patient and sympathetic. Then Castiel says he’s made the choice to stay, and _oh_ , the look upon Dean’s beautiful face is worth every second of pain and loneliness he’s endured over the last three decades. The crow’s feet around his eyes deepen with a grin that spreads like sunshine’s warmth, casting its radiance over Castiel and flushing him down to his toes.

It takes great strength of will to not kiss the man right then and there, and if he were just on the right edge of sobriety, enough so to move his limbs a little less sluggishly, he likely would, consequences be damned. The idea makes him smile, stupid and wide and sleepy.

It feels as though each moment which has carved Castiel’s path, each stepping stone along his journey, occurred solely to lead him here, to this place, this life. _To Dean._

He wants to tell him, wants Dean to _know_ , but suddenly his tongue is thick in his mouth and his head keeps drooping and he’s so very, very tired. He shivers again, curls onto his side, sick yet unbearably relieved.

Dean tucks the blankets in around him, makes him safe. Presses a cool, wet cloth to his forehead, and says, hardly above a whisper, “You’re okay, Cas. I’m... I’m proud of you, man.”

It's like a weight lifts from his shoulders then, and for the first time in a long time, Castiel falls asleep smiling. Believing, _yeah, I'm okay._ Or he will be.

* * *

Castiel stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Notes the color which has returned to his skin, the robust glow it’s taken on in recent weeks. Though he’s fairly certain the bags under his eyes are permanent fixtures, they seem less prominent and dark than the night he learned of his father’s passing. The eyes themselves are clear and bright and his cheeks are less gaunt.

Standing straight, he takes a step back and sees his body has filled out as well. Even his biceps have grown. Between eating home-cooked meals, consistently peaceful sleep, regular exercise, and frequent sunshine, he’s possibly the fittest, and healthiest, he’s ever been.

A little over a month ago, though it feels like just yesterday, he’d made the decision to change his life, and it’s truly amazing the progress he’s made not only physically, but mentally and emotionally, since then. He’s almost… no, he _is_ proud.

He’s actually _proud of_ _himself_.

Castiel sighs, a soft, content sound. It feels unusual but welcome. He flicks the bathroom light off, wandering back into the bedroom. Smiling at the back of Dean’s still-sleeping form, he pads to the dresser on silent feet, grabs a pair of his briefs, and slips into the closet. He drops the towel from around his waist and stretches, happy to enjoy the cool air from the A/C they’d finally installed on his naked flesh. Scanning through the hangers, he selects a black Metallica t-shirt that isn’t his and slips it, and the briefs, on.

“Morning, Sunshine.”

Castiel starts and spins around, feeling a full-body blush work its way across his skin. How long has Dean been awake and standing there? He hadn’t heard him get out of bed.

“Hungry?” Dean asks, smirking.

 _Not for food_ , he thinks. He doesn’t say that, though, instead simply nods and smiles. “Pancakes?” he asks hopefully.

Dean winks before sauntering away, calling over his shoulder, “As you wish!”

* * *

Dean thought (or hoped) Cas sticking around would make it easier to sort out his feelings.

_Yeah_ … no dice.

It’s one thing to take some hot piece home for a quick tumble in the sheets and quite another to want someone you have to look at the next day, and the day after, and the day after that. Like mashing together two universes that totally don’t belong, sticking the Man with No Name into a Bond film or Obi-Wan into Star Trek. Dean isn’t just out of his element here; he’s in a whole other fucking _dimension_.

And they never talk about it.

They never talk about why they wake up a tangle of limbs each morning, or why they bought appliances and a television but neither of them has so much as looked for another mattress. They gravitate to each other on the couch while watching the new TV, so close their arms and thighs touch, although there is plenty of room. They have dinner with Dean’s family once a week. They move Castiel’s clothes into Dean’s bedroom, and sometimes Cas steals his t-shirts. They don’t talk about why they continue acting like any of that is normal for roommates-cum-friends to do.

The elephant they keep dancing around is growing so big they’re gonna have to buy another fucking house.

But Dean goes on pretending he doesn’t want to bend his roommate over the nearest horizontal surface and kiss him senseless every time he does something completely innocuous like nerd out with Sam over dinner, squint when he doesn't get Dean's references, buy the dorkiest friggin’ _Save the Bees_ t-shirt at The Empire Mall, or come in from the garden he's obsessively cultivating to grab a glass of water with dirt under his nails, grass stains on his knees, and this soft, content look on his face.

He pretends his gut doesn’t wrench, teeth don’t grind, and the world doesn’t tint crimson when he hears Cas on the phone with _Meg,_ of all people, or finds out he's been taking the ugly gold Lincoln Continental Mark V her old man sold him to “hang out” _while Dean's at work_. (Yeah, apparently they're _buddies_ now. How the _fuck_ did that happen?)

A week after that unholy revelation, Dean watches Cas button his shirt in the floor-length mirror they bought for the bedroom, gnawing the inside of his cheek raw because even though Cas insists it’s not a date, an invitation for dinner at Meg’s place, _alone_ , sounds like a fucking date.

Cas smiles wearily. “Your concern is duly noted, and appreciated, but unnecessary. I can take care of myself. Besides, I thought you two were ‘old friends’.”

“Yeah, and that means I know her. Meg’s always got an agenda.”

Their eyes meet in the mirror. “What are you saying?” Cas asks.

“Seriously?” Dean throws his hands up. “She’s trying to get into your pants, man! Has been since day one!”

Cas turns, eyes narrowing. “And so what if she is?”

“Oh, so you’re not denying it!”

“I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

“Pfft. I’m not _upset_.”

“Your behavior tells me otherwise.”

“Ya know what, fine. Do what you want,” he eventually mutters, frowning at the space between his knees.

He drags a hand over his mouth and stands, crossing the room in long strides. Throwing the bathroom door shut as he enters, he presses his forehead against it, eyes squeezed tightly closed. His chest feels constricted, his breath coming in short, rapid pants as though he can’t get enough air.

“Dean,” Cas calls, muffled through the wood. Dean pictures him standing there, maybe mimicking his position, putting them forehead to forehead without the barrier. He raises a hand and touches the paneling, the heat of his anger slipping into a cold, hollow ache.

_You break everything you touch._

“Will you open the door?” Cas pauses, and Dean sucks in a breath. “Please?”

Dean pushes off, backs up to sit on the lip of the tub, and says, “It’s open.”

Not ready to confront the look on Cas’ face as the knob turns, he crosses his arms and looks away. He doesn’t like this feeling and likes thinking about it even less, so he pushes it down along with everything else—which really, is what he's best at—and tries to convince himself it doesn’t matter.

“Are you…” Cas hesitates, and Dean glances up just long enough to see a flicker of something he can’t quite read dancing behind his gaze before Cas breathes, “jealous?”

He’s not jealous. He’s fucking not, because that would imply a whole bunch of shit he’s been trying really hard to force out of his mind. Suddenly there’s a pounding in his head that refuses to cease and behind it a tiny voice whispering, _yes you are. You’re being a jealous prick, and Cas knows. He knows and he’s going to leave you._

His heart races, panic rising at the thought.

“What? No, that’s not the—”

“Dean, I’m not interested in anything more than her friendship,” Cas murmurs. “Don’t you want me to have friends here?”

“The fuck—I’m not saying you can’t have friends!”

A flare of frustration is visible in the set of Cas’ shoulders and tightness around his eyes. “Then what is the problem? Talk to me.”

“I don’t _want_ to talk about it. I told you before, man, I’m not good at this shit.”

“I won’t go if it means that much to you.”

“It doesn’t _mean_ anything,” Dean snaps harshly, shooting to his feet. Fists clenching at his sides, he feels a strong urge to punch the wall trembling through his arms, but remains frozen.

Cas glares right back, jaw setting determinedly. “ _Whatever_.” He pivots on his heels and storms away, the sound of the front door slamming shut replaying through Dean’s mind for hours after.

Later that night, Dean tosses and turns, checking his phone every few minutes although it hasn’t made a sound. It’s well past midnight when Cas comes slinking into the bedroom, and Dean listens with bated breath while he putters softly about on socked feet, stripping his clothes.

At length, Dean releases the air he’s been holding, low and quiet beneath the hum of the fan as Cas’ weight settles on the other side of the bed followed by a tired sigh. Dean waits, stock still, though he longs to curl into the other man’s warmth. It feels as though something’s broken between them and he doesn’t know how to repair it, or if he can.

Several minutes pass before Cas whispers, so gentle he almost misses it, “Dean?” The temptation is there to keep up the facade, pretend he’s sleeping, but curiosity wins out.

“Mmm?” he grumbles. The short silence that follows is tense and awkward.

“I’m sorry about earlier.”

He’s tired, and still kinda pissed, and the last thing he wants is to rehash the events of that evening. But he knows Cas well enough now that it’s obvious he isn’t gonna let this go unless Dean says something, so he half-turns and replies in a throaty voice, “Me too.”

“Can…” Cas takes a deep breath. “Can we—?”

It takes him a moment to figure out what Cas is asking for. He shouldn’t say yes, because letting this continue is only making things worse, harder. But he wants—no, _needs_ —Cas right now. Needs to feel him close, to feel like he’s his, even if only in the dead of night, under the cover of darkness and shared sheets. He’d feel more pathetic for it if they weren’t _both_ so obviously touch-starved.

 _And that’s all this is, all this will ever be_ , the voice in his head reminds him. Two lonely souls craving closeness, a desperate reminder that they’re not alone, that they have each other.

Cas doesn’t want Dean the way Dean wants Cas. He can’t want him, ‘cause Dean is fucking broken, unworthy of love, _everyone always leaves_ —so he doesn’t say a word. Just nods and lifts the blanket to allow Cas to scoot closer, tangle their legs together, and wrap a strong arm around his waist.

Cas is a long line of soothing heat pressed firmly to Dean’s back, and he hums into the embrace despite the chasm within him that grows every single time they do this.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas murmurs, lips moving against the skin of Dean’s neck and making him shiver.

He wants so badly to turn over, tilt his head and press their mouths together, capture the sweet mint toothpaste flavor he detects lingering on the other man’s breath, but the knowledge that he can’t is a spear to the chest which leaves him cold, empty, regardless of the temporary contentment these touches bring.

There’s no fighting it, no denying it anymore. Dean’s in love with his roommate, his best friend. This confounding, infuriating, nerdy little dude who came into his life like a whirlwind and made a permanent mark on his heart, and if this is the closest he’ll ever get to having him, _fuck it_.

He’ll take what crumbs he can get even if it kills him inside to do so.

* * *

Cas is definitely trying to kill him.

It’s the weekend; Dean’s chore day. He’s done his rounds on the tractor they found stashed in the unattached garage (which he’s started parking Baby in most days and has enough space for three more vehicles even with all the equipment in there. He’s sorely tempted to convert the building into a mechanic’s dream, but that project is gonna have to wait), tended to the acreage that isn’t heavily forested, and is now chugging an ice-cold beer in the kitchen with a full view of Cas doing yoga.

His back is arched, bare feet and palms planted on the mat he’s laid out, perfect ass in the air, neatly framed between the glass-plated French doors.

Wearing a thin, baggy pastel-blue linen tunic and matching pants from Banes’ Boutique, Max and Alicia’s hippie consignment store, Cas looks like the fifth Beatle during their acid phase. He fluidly shifts into a new pose. Standing straight, his forearms twist vertically in front of his chest as he lifts a foot, tucks it around the back of his calf, and sinks into some kinda squat. Dean can see the muscles of his thighs strain in this position, the striations of his back and shoulders flexing while he balances there on one foot.

Since beginning this regimen, he’s taken a liking to performing it on the deck overlooking the garden. Which would be fine and dandy if Dean didn’t have to watch him do it.

Okay, so he doesn’t _have_ to watch. But _come on._

It’s beyond amazing what Cas can do (and Jesus, how is he so _bendy_?), each movement equal parts arousing and mesmerizing. He exudes graceful, elegant strength, looks for all the world like even the most difficult positions take little to no effort, and seems at peace in a way he hadn’t that first month as if a great burden has been lifted from his shoulders.

Anyone who’s seen the before and after can tell, clear as day, that he’s happier. Dean only wishes he were so content.

Frustrated and full of pent up energy with maybe an hour to spare before Cas finishes today’s episode of “Let’s Torture Dean Winchester”, Dean runs upstairs and into his bathroom. Might as well make the most of what little privacy he can get these days, right?

He’s right in the middle of working himself open for the dildo he keeps squirreled away underneath the sink when his phone rings.

 _Fuck my life_.

He exhales with a miserable groan, pulls out his fingers, and takes a deep breath in an attempt to sound normal. With his clean hand, he answers the call without looking at the screen, puts it on speaker, and barks, “What!”

“Woah, chill out.”

Dean winces. _Son of a bitch,_ it’s his brother. Nothing has ever killed his boner faster.

Sam continues, “What’s going on? You guys okay?”

“I’m good,” he grunts. “Cas is, uh… busy.”

Sam chuckles on the other end of the line and Dean hears him say something, muffled though like he’s covering the receiver with his hand. Probably talking to Jess. Then he says, “What about you? I need your help with something.”

Dean’s eyes cast to the enormous flesh-toned phallus suctioned to the center of the tile floor and he coughs to mask a snort. “Uh, no. Why, what’s up?”

“So get this, you know that office I rented?”

‘Course he knows, he helped him get the damn place. Sam’s been trying to open up his own small law practice to service the county’s five thousand some-odd residents (though Dean swears they count the cows on the census) since he moved back from Stanford, and Jess started teaching at the local elementary school in mid-August.

They’re both well on their way to that white picket fence, two and a half kids and a dog, apple pie life and Dean couldn’t be more proud.

And maybe a little bit envious.

“...Yeah, what about it?”

“A pipe busted.”

“Awesome,” he says dryly.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He sighs and reaches for a towel. “I’ll see if Zeke can meet us out there. Gimme about… half an hour to head your way.”

“Thanks, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah. Later, bitch.”

Sam’s tone is affectionate and full of gratitude as he replies, “Jerk.”

Dean settles for rubbing one out quick and dirty over the toilet (which is exactly as depressing and unsatisfying as it sounds) before cleaning up, putting his stuff away, and dressing in some work clothes.

He’s halfway down the stairs when Cas rounds the corner at the bottom step, wiping his sweaty, glistening chest with his balled-up shirt, a curious tilt to his head. It’s a struggle to keep Dean’s eyes above his neckline.

“Where are you going?”

“Emergency call,” he says, coming up beside Cas just as he finishes rolling up his sleeves. “Pipe busted during the renovation over at Sam’s office.”

“When will you be home?”

Home. _Their home_. And fuck, if that doesn’t send the butterflies in his stomach into overdrive.

He tries to control his grin as he sits on the bench in the foyer to lace up his boots, Cas hovering in front of him with an unfairly adorable pout. “Dunno, depends on the damage. I’ll text you, but there are leftovers in the fridge just in case.” Before he can think, he stands and presses a quick kiss to Cas’ cheek.

It isn’t until his hand is on the door that he registers what he’s just done or the stuttered little gasp it elicited from the other man. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he sees Castiel motionless, eyes wide, in the same spot he left him. He looks stunned, a hand resting upon his cheek.

Feeling like a bucket of ice has been dumped over his head, he opens the door and steps over the threshold, muttering, “Don’t wait up,” as he closes it behind him.

* * *

“Really, Dean?”

Dean pauses and turns his head, both hands on the wall to keep the Zeppelin poster flat. A sharp pain shoots him between the eyes at the movement and he winces hard, gritting his teeth against it.

Cas hovers in the doorway of their bedroom, a basket full of laundry in his arms. They’d decided to combine loads from the start, since it was easier and took up less water when they had to do it at Bobby’s. Even after the new appliances arrived at the house a few weeks ago, the habit stuck, and Cas insisted on taking that chore since Dean does the vast majority of the cooking.

It was a little weird at first, having the dude fold his underwear once a week, but it’s never been Dean’s favorite chore so it didn’t take much for him to cave.

“What about the paint?” Cas says, sceptical.

“They’re 3M poster strips, dude. No damage, I promise.”

His friend's lips fight against a curl like he’s withholding a smile. “Whatever you say.”

He sets the basket on the bed, then crawls up beside Dean where he’s kneeling in the center by the headboard, balancing himself with a hand at the small of Dean’s back. Dean forgets to breathe for a long moment. When he does, his throat is dry and scratchy and he ends up coughing into his shoulder, leaning away from Cas so he doesn’t accidentally spit all over him or something.

“Are you alright?” Cas says, brow pinched with concern.

“I’m okay. Probably just allergies again.”

“Did you take your meds today?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” Cas taps a finger on his chin. “I still think you may be catching a cold.”

“I never get sick.”

“After the other night, though—”

“Told you, I feel fine.” Dean snorts, but even that pains him, and he wonders if Cas might be right, because he’s totally blowing hot air. He’s felt like shit since the morning after fixing that damn pipe. (Apparently wading through water containing who knows how much filthy bacteria in increasingly cooler temperatures for several hours isn’t great for one’s health.)

Cas’ eyes drill through him analytically as he pats down the bottom corners and, finished smoothing out the poster, settles on his heels to admire it. He pointedly ignores Cas until the guy gives up and moves to sit cross-legged at the foot of the bed, pulling clothing out of the basket to fold.

Satisfied, Dean then turns and flops onto his belly, bouncing the both of them and knocking over a small pile of jeans. That earns him a withering (but still adorable) glare from Cas, and he apologizes silently with a shrug.

He tries to watch the TV beyond Cas’ shoulder with his chin propped on folded arms, but his eyes gravitate to the other man against his will every few minutes.

Cas has beautiful hands (well, beautiful everything, really). Long, graceful fingers fold with routine precision, a stack systematically forming between them as the time passes. Dean loves these rare moments of leisure, the days they get to spend together doing anything and nothing in the home they’re making their own.

His head is heavy, the ache that sprouted at its center that morning having steadily spread to his temples despite the over the counter painkillers he took an hour ago, and his throat’s even begun to feel sore. Within minutes, his eyelids begin to droop.

“Dean?”

“Huh?”

“How’s your head?”

He gives Cas a slow, sleepy grin. “Never gotten any complaints.” Cas’ eyes narrow and head angles to the right, mouth forming a small circle. Dean can almost hear the whoosh of his joke flying right over the guy’s head. Letting his head drop to his forearms he mutters, “Forget it,” under his breath.

“Are you sure you’re alright? You look unusually pale.”

“‘M fine, just kinda sleepy.”

Cas’ hands, one holding Dean’s purple, blue, and pink plaid shirt and the other a hanger, fall to his lap. He’s staring still, but Dean’s too tired to care. “If I make you some tea, will you actually drink it?”

He makes a sour face. “Ugh, not that herbal crap.”

“If you’re coming down with something, that ‘herbal crap’ may help.”

Dean chuckles. “You spend too much time with Sam.”

“You hardly touched your breakfast this morning,” Cas says, pointing at him with the end of the hanger.

“Wasn’t hungry.”

“Exactly. That’s not normal, not for you. I’m worried.”

“I told you, I’m good.”

He nods off sometime after Commander Adama allows Sharon to interface with the Galactica’s computer system. Wakes to find the TV off, Cas gone, and two pale cornflower eyes an inch from his nose.

“Claire,” he groans. “Scram.”

Damn cat knows she’s not allowed up there but she’s even more stubborn than he is. He shoos her off the bed, rolls onto his back, sits up, and immediately cries out from the head-splitting pain. It feels as though his brain’s gonna explode through his eye sockets, throbbing and tender within his skull. His throat is even more scratchy and sore than that morning and his shirt sticks to his skin, soaked in sweat.

Shivering, he stumbles toward the bathroom but his vision tunnels, black spots flickering over his eyes. Dean collapses against the doorframe with an agonized groan.

“Dean!”

Cas appears seemingly from nowhere, hooks his arms beneath Dean’s, and heaves him up, holding him close to his chest. “That’s it, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“Nnngg… no... hospital,” Dean slurs into his friend's shoulder. His head throbs, he can't catch his breath.

“I’m not giving you a choice. You’re very ill.”

Dean groans again. The world dims, darkness creeping up around him, cold and sticky. He can’t feel his legs anymore and he slumps, fatigued. Cas bears all of his weight, of course he does, he'd never let Dean fall.

He thinks he hears him calling, or maybe whispering, hard to tell 'cause he sounds so far away but somewhere in Dean's mind, he knows he's not. _I've got you, hey._ He gives in then, lets the languid dark swallow him whole.

He comes to in bits and pieces. At one point sees a blurry Cas pacing the room, speaking in frantic whispers, and Dean can’t tell if he’s talking to himself or he’s on the phone but before he can think much about it, he’s out like a light.

Another time he feels something squeezing his upper arm painfully tight and grumbles into consciousnesses, pulling feebly away from whatever has its grip on him. But something pins his wrist to the bed and he hears Cas’ voice, sorta far off and dreamlike, soothing, telling him everything is alright until he calms and slips away again.

When he next wakes, there are multiple people speaking, but the duvet tucked in close under his chin is warm and everything outside of it is freezing and sucks ass so he burrows deeper, shivering violently, body feeling clammy and disgusting. A miserable moan escapes when another bolt of pain lances through his head just from that tiny bit of effort.

_Son of a bitch, this is it._ He’s really fucking dying. (And if he’s not, he kinda wants to, because whatever the hell this is feels _terrible_.)

“Thank you, Dr. Berry,” comes a hushed voice from somewhere. Maybe the hallway. Who the hell cares right now. _Wait, Billie’s here?_ “I appreciate you taking the time to make a house call.”

“All part of the job, Mr. Shurley. Take this”—he hears the sound of paper tearing—“to the pharmacy in town. It closes early on weekends, so you’ll want to go right away. Seventy-five milligrams twice a day for five days.”

“What is it?”

“Just Tamiflu.” Tami-what-now? Jesus. _Just give me something to knock me the fuck out_ , he thinks grumpily. “It’s not a cure-all, but it may shorten the duration of his symptoms since you caught it within forty-eight hours. He may also take acetaminophen or ibuprofen for the pain and fever. Make sure he gets lots of fluids in the meantime.”

“Is there anything I should look out for?” Cas sounds kinda panicked still, and it makes Dean feel bad but also a little warm inside because… shit, the guy is really worried about him. “What if he gets worse?”

“If he begins to show signs of confusion, difficulty breathing or shortness of breath, pain or pressure in his chest or stomach, or vomiting, I’d recommend taking him to the Emergency Room. But the best, and safest, option for him currently is bed rest and hydration.”

“Thank you again.”

“Of course. Call my office on Monday and, provided he improves, we’ll set up a follow-up appointment for next week.”

“Alright.”

Then in a lower voice, Billie says, “He’s lucky to have you.”

Dean trembles, but this time it isn't the fever. He tries to push that from his mind.

“Oh, I—”

“I’ve known the Winchester boys a long time, and Dean’s always been stubborn as a mule. Who knows how long he would have let this illness slide without asking for help. I can tell you care a great deal for him.”

There’s a brief pause. “Yes… I do. Very much.”

The click of her heels on the freshly stained wood grows distant as she turns the corner toward the stairs to leave, and moments later, the bed sinks next to him. A cool, gentle hand presses to his forehead, and he hears Cas make a displeased noise in the back of his throat. Dean cracks his eyes open; they’re crusted at the corners, burn like hell, and all he can muster is a squint as he peeks out from the covers to see Cas’ furrowed brow above him.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean smiles, despite himself, at the fondness in the other man’s tone. But the moment he tries to speak he ends up in a coughing fit that rakes over his parched throat and twists his abdominal muscles to the point of soreness.

“Th-thirsty,” he manages to rasp.

“Here.” Cas holds his head with one hand, bringing a cup to his lips with the other, and tips the soothing water into his mouth. He’s so dehydrated already the urge to guzzle it all is strong, but Cas only allows a few timid sips at a time to prevent him from choking. “You have the flu. I’m gonna run to the pharmacy, and I’ll be back soon. Do you think you’ll be okay until then?”

Dean nods, lies back on the pillows, and is out within seconds.

The days that follow are equal parts awesome and frustrating. Awesome because he’s never been pampered like this a day in his life, and frustrating for… pretty much the same reason. Dean tries to convince Cas to leave or at least sleep on the couch so he doesn’t get sick, to no avail. Dude _insists_ on mother-henning him through it.

He calls Benny, who’s not only Dean’s friend but also his business manager, to let him know Dean’s taking the week off. Though they’d been warned away to prevent spreading the flu around, Cas texts his family daily updates and Ellen drops off some homemade chicken noodle and pecan pie one morning while Dean’s sleeping in.

Cas only lets Dean get out of bed to relieve himself and take baths (showers aren’t allowed, apparently. Something about blood pressure, Cas doesn’t want him to slip and fall, blah blah blah), which is embarrassing enough in itself. He also forces him to drink some nasty tea with honey that basically tastes like sweetened grass, a metric fuckton of water, and won’t let him have any beer ‘cause he says alcohol may interfere with the medication.

Being sick is the literal worst, and Cas is a real pain in the ass—strict as a schoolmarm and just as scary—but even Dean has to admit, everything else is pretty nice.

It’s been _years_ since he’s gotten sick at all, much less anything like this. Aside from pet allergies, the occasional heartburn, and rare seasonal colds, Dean’s always been healthy as a horse. So he doesn’t know how to deal with the maelstrom of symptoms that hit him seemingly out of nowhere; persistent, bone-deep fatigue, body aches, clogged sinuses, sore throat, migraines, fever, dizziness, phlegmy cough, and mild nausea that doesn’t quite make him puke but does make it difficult to eat anything heavier than broth and Saltines.

Of course, that means he’s a fucking asshole about it for the first few days.

Cas takes it all in stride, playing big spoon to Dean’s little, combatting Dean’s chills with the comfort of his body heat. He brings him all his meals in bed, and although most are canned soups after Ellen’s runs out, it’s the thought that counts.

Monday night, however, he goes so far as to Google, in secret, a tomato rice soup recipe just like Dean’s mom used to make when he was little. Dean is astonished to the point of tears (which he hides under a tissue with the excuse of a runny nose) that Cas remembered, ‘cause he’d only ever mentioned it once offhand like, weeks ago in a random conversation. Cas even manages not to fuck it up or burn the house down in the process, and shit, Dean’s kinda proud of him.

If his life were a chick-flick he’s sure his heart would’ve melted the instant Cas put that bowl down in front of him with a shy, anxious look on his face, cheeks staining pink as Dean dove happily in. Maybe it wasn’t perfect (Mary always used brown rice and all they have at the house is white, there’s a pinch too much salt, and it’s a little on the watery side), but it’s close enough, and so worth it to see the brilliant sparkle of pleasure in Castiel’s eyes from the praise Dean showered him with for his efforts.

Dean spends the rest of the week catching up on his Netflix watch list, introducing Cas to shows and movies he’s never seen, and re-reads his tattered paperback copies of _Slaughterhouse-Five_ and _Cat’s Cradle_ for the hundredth time just for the heck of it.

What? He reads.

On the fourth day of his involuntary house arrest, as he’s come to jokingly call it, he complains about the crook in his neck and muscle stiffness from laying around so much (unfortunately even his memory foam gets uncomfortable after too long). Cas tells him to lay on his front, shirtless, and proceeds to give him a slow, tender massage, with oil and everything, good enough to rival any professional.

And if Dean gets a little hard to the sensation of those thick thighs straddling his, and those strong, slender hands kneading every inch of exposed skin, well. Nobody needs to know but him.

Dean turns to putty beneath him, moaning and grunting as the knots in his muscles loosen, until Cas works some kinda magic right at the base of his spine and those sounds turn to snores.

* * *

“We’re going to be late.”

Dean glances at Castiel’s reflection in the mirror to see him leaning against the doorframe behind him. To anyone else, his expression remains as casually shuttered as ever, but Dean detects impatience in the minute tic of his jaw and narrowing of his eyes. He flashes the man a haughty grin, running wax-lathered hands through his hair.

“Can’t rush perfection, Cas.”

Cas rolls his eyes, though the tightening of his lips betray he’s holding back a smile. “I’m beginning to wonder who spends more time on their hair, you or your brother.”

“Psssh—Sam, easy. Trust me, you never lived with the kid. Takes longer than a chick.”

Dean runs the faucet, rinsing the rest of the product from his fingers and swipes them quickly over the towel hung beside the sink. Ready to leave, he turns and moves for the exit when Cas stops him with a hand on his arm. The doorway is a tight fit, bringing them nearly chest to chest. His eyes automatically fall to Castiel’s lips, which part on a gentle breath that ghosts over Dean’s chin as Cas reaches up to tease a strand he must have missed into place.

“There,” he murmurs softly, finally smiling, “ _now_ it’s perfect.”

Before Dean can say or do any number of the things running through his mind, Cas brushes past him and heads toward the stairs like he didn’t just almost make Dean’s heart stop.

Less than fifteen minutes later, Dean’s pulling Baby down an unpaved path toward the lake and into a spot far enough away from the rows of other vehicles that there’s no chance of her getting scratched, though it means they’ll have farther to walk. They quickly unpack the beer, food, and folding chairs from the trunk, then make their way to the waterfront, Dean grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. He loves the fuck out of holidays and is excited to share this one with Cas.

The weather is near flawless, sky clear and bright save for a few scattered clouds above the rustling trees which have only recently begun transitioning from crisp emerald to shades of red, orange, and yellow. Fallen leaves crunch beneath Dean’s soles, the sound mingling with music and voices that drift along the early autumn wind from a few yards away, and as they breach the natural gate of the treeline into a wide clearing, they’re greeted by the smell of burning coals and cooking food.

Townspeople form little clusters either beneath the open sky or portable canopies, gathered around stereos, tables, and bar-b-que grills, with chairs and blankets laid out across the grass bordering the narrow strip of sand and weathered-smooth rocks running the length of the glimmering, pristine shoreline. Spotting a flash of bright red, Dean weaves through the crowds over to their—er, his—family’s spot.

“Y’all finally made it,” comes a familiar voice somewhere to his left. He turns to find Jo standing there, one hand on her hip and the other holding an open can of El Sol. She looks him up and down shrewdly before glancing at Cas beside him and breaking into a grin. “Ready for your first Labor Day in Eden?”

Cas blinks. “But we’re currently several miles outside of Eden.”

Dean snorts. “That’s not—”

Just then Charlie sidles up next to Jo, waving a cherry popsicle. “There you are!” She gives Dean and Cas each a one-handed hug, grinning brightly. “Come on, Bobby’s already got the grill going. You promised us your famous burgers!” she says, pointing the popsicle at Dean.

He lifts the bags in his left hand. “Got everything right here.”

“ _I’ll_ take those!” The bags are snatched from his fingers before he can reply by his hulking giant of a brother who somehow snuck up on him, and he answers Dean's scowl with smugly pursed lips.

While Dean stashes the beer in the cooler, Cas takes their chairs over to the others, and Sam lays the food on the foldable table alongside the rest of their bounty. Ellen brought a bowl of her homemade potato salad and savory-sweet brown sugar baked beans (with bacon, of course), Sam his traditional rabbit food, and Dean the burgers and hot dogs.

Paper plates, napkins, and utensils sit at one end, toppings and other fixings lining the back of the table. Mustard, ketchup, mayo, bar-b-que sauce, a jar of relish, sliced onions and tomatoes, dill pickles, a head of iceberg lettuce, a tupperware container full of cooked bacon, and packages of sliced sharp cheddar. Dean’s mouth waters just thinking about the meal he’s been looking forward to all week.

While he mans the grill, the ladies drag Cas away to dig through the box of fireworks for later. Ellen and Jess pull him into tight hugs that leave a pretty flush on the exposed skin where his collar is unbuttoned and open under his trench coat. Dean watches as Bobby wanders over, pointing out bottle rockets and mortar shells to Cas, whose hands remain awkwardly at his sides, shoulders forward in that slightly hunched way of his. Though he looks a little out of place, his expression is warm and tender, bringing a smile to Dean’s lips.

His heart feels too big for his chest, seeing all the people he loves in one place like this, happy and at peace. Only one person is missing, but in a way, maybe she’s looking down on them right now. Watching over them… or, ya know, something like that.

Cas looks up, eyes finding Dean immediately as if he sensed him staring. He smiles and gives a dorky little wave, which Dean returns enthusiastically, and he opens his mouth to call him over when—

“So”—Sam pops the caps off two bottles and hands one to Dean—“how’s it going?”

“Hmm?” Dean tears his eyes away from Cas, finds Sam has followed his gaze, and awkwardly clears his throat. “How’s what going?”

“Y’know...” Sam’s eyebrows rise expectantly.

Turning his attention back to the food, Dean mumbles, “Uh, good. Great.” He opens the grill cover, finds the coals are at their ideal temperature, and begins laying down neat rows of hamburger patties and beef franks.

Sam gives him a long, scrutinizing look.

“What? There something on my face?”

“Sure there’s nothing you wanna tell me?”

“Like what?”

“Whatever, man.” Sam sighs and takes a swig. “Just saying, when you’re ready to talk, I’m here.”

“Stow the Hallmark, ‘kay?” Leave it to Sam to get all sappy. “Nothing to talk about.” Dean scoffs, focusing on his task.

Cooking has always been soothing for him, much like his work. Doing things with his hands lets him tune everything else out, and it’s that much easier when he’s doing it for others. Easier than thinking about the man smiling at one of Charlie’s corny jokes a couple yards away. Easier than sitting across a table from him every morning, Cas’ eyes sallow as he frowns at the coffee held in a death grip between both hands. Easier than watching the guy settled cross-legged in the garden, a gloved hand smearing a streak of dirt across his forehead as he wipes the sweat away. Easier than lying in bed beside Cas night after night knowing he can’t touch in the way he longs to.

This… this, Dean can do. He can cook some goddamn burgers, and pretend everything is fine.

Once the food is done and everyone has served themselves a plate, they sit in their chairs, forming a crescent along the shore to look out upon the water as more clouds slowly creep across the skyline. The weather is still fair, and though the wind bites more as the sun sinks below the horizon and the first fireworks begin to burst in brilliant rainbow hues against the starry backdrop beyond, it’s not enough to call it cold yet.

Still, with his food finished and a beer dripping condensation in his hand, a shiver runs through Dean and he curls forward, elbows on his knees, bracing against the chill.

“Are you cold?”

He casts an eye sideways at Cas, sitting beside him with a soft smile awash in an iridescent glow that makes his heart flutter in his chest. “Nah, I’m good.”

“I told you to bring a jacket.”

“It’s only September.”

“But you’re already shivering. What if you—”

“I said I’m fine, quit nagging.”

Someone snorts off to his right, and he turns his head to see Sam and Jo watching the exchange.

“What are you lookin’ at?” he snaps.

“You are _so_ married,” Jo says, head tossing back with a laugh. Sam hides his grin poorly behind twitching lips while Jess and Charlie giggle quietly to themselves.

Dean sputters, unsure how to respond, and a glance back at Cas reveals wide eyes and darkened cheeks even in the muted moonlight between each colorful burst above them. He’s staring at the hands clasped tightly in his lap, and knowing even just the thought of them being together like that has Cas looking so embarrassed makes his gut twist painfully.

As his heart sinks, his hackles rise and he whips his head back toward the culprits to whisper venomously, “You— _you're_ so married!”

Sam’s laugh breaks through then, body convulsing with the force of it. He’s practically wheezing by the time he stammers out, “Yeah, good one Dean.”

“Bitch!”

“Jerk.”

“Enough, you two,” Ellen says, voice stern but fond, Bobby half-smirking, half-scowling next to her.

“Whatever,” he grumbles, standing. “I’m getting another drink.”

Dean thinks of asking Cas if he wants one, but can’t bring himself to look at or talk to him right now, choosing instead to storm off toward the coolers in tense silence. He tosses his empty bottle in the bag they’d brought and flips open the lid on the Coleman, popping the cap on a fresh one and taking a long swig before leaves crackling underfoot bring his attention to someone approaching.

“Hey there, stranger.”

He eyes the smoky brunette as she saunters up to him, thumbs in her belt loops, and smirks. “Pamela.”

“Spare one of those for me?”

“Why not.” He hands her a beer, watching as she cracks it open on the edge of the table.

“Over here all by your lonesome, I see.” Her eyes rake him up and down in a way that never fails to make him feel both turned on and a little slimy.

They’ve rocked the boat their share, but never anything more serious than tension relief. She’s older, experienced, and a real tiger in the sack, and he’d be lying if he said the memory alone didn’t pique his interest. Give him a break, it’s been _a while._ That said, he knows she isn't who he wants. No one else will do, that's why his dumb ass hasn't gone to the city bars in months. He's pining like a damn sap. _  
_

“Yeah.” He leers anyway, sipping his beer slowly in the way he knows usually makes her hot under the collar. This is him being _normal_. Can't let the rest show. “Why, you wanna keep me company?”

She laughs. It’s a husky, sorta patronizing thing, and he’d take offense coming from anyone else, but that’s just Pam’s way. He knows she doesn’t mean anything by it. Plus, she’s earned the right to be smug.

“Why do you always want what you can’t have?” she replies, grinning knowingly.

“Hasn’t that ship sailed?”

“Maybe I don’t mean me.”

“What?”

She laughs again and shakes her head. “Hardly ever see you at the Roadhouse anymore.”

He shrugs. “Been busy.”

She hums and stares, and he rocks on his feet, and it’s starting to feel awkward as hell the longer she watches him.

“Worried we’ll scare away your boy-toy?” she finally says, and the beer he’d just sipped dribbles down his chin as he splutters in shock.

“My _what_?”

“Oh come on, kiddo. You know you’ve never been able to put one over on me.” She taps her temple and winks. Fucking psychics. He’s sure it’s just a bunch of mumbo jumbo, but if he’s honest, yeah, she’s eerily perceptive and it has always creeped him the hell out.

“He’s not—we’re not—”

“Not yet, anyway.”

He swallows hard and looks that way. Charlie is doing some kind of charades, and Jo has taken Dean’s chair to watch. She’s leaning over the arm of it, whispering something in Cas’ ear that makes him grin as they attempt to guess whatever it is Charlie is wildly gesticulating. Dean feels his own lips curl against his will, but that old familiar doubt remains.

“You getting a… vibe, or whatever?”

“Anyone without my ability to read people can see what’s between you two. But yeah, you could say that.”

Dean sighs and stares at his boots, leaning his butt back on the table. “I’m afraid your radar is off this time.” _She's wrong._

“You sure about that?” she says, head cocked low to catch his eyes again. “Think about it. All he’s given up… that’s not for nothing.” _That_ perks his ears up, because how would she know unless she _knows_? She begins backing away toward wherever it is she wandered over from and salutes. “Don’t give up, is all I’m saying. Be seeing you, Dean.”

 _That was fucking weird_. Brings up a good question, though. Why _did_ Cas stay? Sure, he hated his job, that much was obvious. But he had friends there, right? A whole life back in Boston, and he left it behind.

Now that Dean thinks about it, it’s a lot to give up for a house in a town filled with strangers, a small one no less. Things here have gotta be a helluva lot different from what he’s used to, but he’s never once complained, and he seems genuinely happier here.

Several minutes pass, he’s not sure how long, with him staring out at the other people lining the shore, just thinking to himself. He spots a group of teenagers huddled around a small fire, giggling and sipping what he can guarantee isn’t just punch out of red solo cups. A father carrying his young daughter upon his shoulders, pointing out constellations. Two young boys crouched in the sand, digging through a box of Roman candles, bringing him back to a time when he and Sam had done the same at this very lake for the first time. A mother soothing a fussy toddler in her lap, husband beside her holding out the peace offering of a juice box.

Dean smiles wistfully, wondering what it’d be like in their place. To hold a child of his own, bounce them in his lap and listen to their gurgling fits of giggles. When he tries to picture his partner, it’s no real surprise that a shock of dark hair and blue eyes are the first things to come to mind. His vision becomes fuzzy at the edges and he rubs his eyes with his free hand, fingers sliding together to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Dean?”

Even without a voice to match, he’d recognize the hand on his shoulder. The size and weight of it, the way it rests firmly yet still feels tentative, as though Dean is something fragile or might easily be scared off. He doesn’t speak for fear that the hand will fall away, just hums deep in his throat and tilts his head. A little further, maybe he could rest his cheek on it…

“What are you doing all the way over here?” Cas asks.

He tips the half-drained bottle at Cas and sighs resignedly as Cas removes his hand and slips it into his coat pocket. He comes up to stand next to him and follow Dean’s line of sight.

Dean clears his throat. “You, uh… you ever want that?” he says, cocking his head toward the people nearby.

Cas squints for a moment before the realization seems to dawn. “A family?”

“Yeah.”

“Never really thought about it.”

Cas’ eyes bore holes in the side of his face and Dean shuffles, looking away to hide the disappointment that must be painted on it. Those blue eyes see everything, it feels like.

“Why not?”

“I’ve never had occasion. None of my… ‘relationships’ lasted long enough to consider it. When I was younger, maybe, I’d think from time to time, one day, but then that day didn’t come. So I threw myself into my work instead, got Claire.”

Dean risks a furtive glance and is startled to see Cas looking forlorn, though his tone hadn’t betrayed the emotion. His gaze mile-long, unblinking and shiny. The corners of his lips are downturned and there's a heaviness around him, a reflection of the man Dean first met, so burdened and alone. Dean hates it, wants to take all that away for him, find each wound and kiss them better. They haven’t spoken much about past relationships before, or even preferences, come to think of it. Do Cas’ scars look and feel like his?

Maybe it’s the beer, maybe he’s just an idiot, but before he can stop himself he asks, “What about now?”

Cas’ eyes drift back to Dean. “What do you mean?”

“I mean if you had one. A relationship. D’ya think you’d consider it now?”

“Oh.” Cas shifts on his feet, shoulder bumping Dean’s, and his gaze darts briefly skyward as a red mortar shell explodes, casting a pretty shade over his cheeks. When he looks back, their eyes lock. “If my partner did, too… then yes.”

He can't tear his eyes away, not from that stare. Mulling over the wording for a second, _partner_ , he likes the way it sounds. The way it brings a flame to life in his chest although that feeling has only ever been a dangerous one. It sounds like potential. Like _hope_.

“About that,” he starts, licking his lips, “you know, relationships. Since you’re staying here and all…”

Castiel’s eyes flash in the light, flitting quickly down to his lips and back. “Dean…”

He pauses, taking a breath, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure how, and Dean hopes it’s what he thinks, that all his doubts have been misguided products of his own shitty opinion of himself and not a reflection of whatever Cas actually feels. His heartbeat drowns out the fireworks, anticipation tingling across his skin like the wind. Then Cas turns toward him fully, bringing them mere inches apart.

“What are you asking me?” he says softly, barely audible over the laughter around them and explosions above.

Dean looks down at the barely-there space between them and shrugs. Clenches a fist, then releases, flexing the fingers as they itch to reach for Cas’ hand. It’s so fucking stupid how hard it is to just touch him, however much he wants to, when they’re so much closer in the silent dark of their bedroom every night.

When his gaze returns, the sight that greets him nearly takes his breath away. Castiel’s eyes are glossy and sincere, his own hope and yearning echoing within. Maybe he’s not imagining things after all, maybe it’s now or never to shoot his shot and find out.

He gives in to the feeling and wraps his hand around Cas’. It's broad and warm in his, grounding. Perfect.

“Would you… I dunno, maybe—”

“Dean!”

Over Castiel’s shoulder, he sees Sam walking toward them and groans, “Fuck,” under his breath. He pulls his hand away, taking a step back from Cas just in time for his brother to clap him on the shoulder.

“Been waiting on you. We’ve got a whole box over there, you guys gonna help or what?” After a long minute of Sam staring between the both of them as they fidget and avoid looking at each other, Sam clears his throat obnoxiously. “Am I interrupting something?”

Dean chortles clumsily, still dodging both men’s gazes. “Nope. Nothing.” With one long pull, he finishes the beer and chucks it into the trash. “C’mon, let’s get this party started!”

They’ve barely finished packing up their gear when the first rumble of thunder rolls overhead and rain begins to fall. It’s a mad dash to the Impala from there, and since Dean had parked so far down, they’re fucking soaked to the bone by the time they shut themselves inside.

Dean shakes his head like a dog, a fine spray of water coating the steering wheel in front of him and Cas laughs, holding up a hand to shield himself as though he’s not already drenched. Dean grins at him, which turns into the two of them staring for a minute that shifts from humorous to oddly tense in the space of a blink. It takes all he has to pull his eyes away and start the car because there’s some major deja-vu happening right now and it’s weirding him out and… kinda turning him on.

_What the fuck. Keep it together, Winchester._

“You should get out of those clothes as soon as we get home,” Cas says, gazing out the passenger window.

Dean coughs. There’s no way in hell he heard that right. “What?”

Cas turns to look at him, head cocked all innocently. “So you don’t get sick again.”

Maybe Dean had too much beer. Shit, if that’s the case, he probably shouldn’t be driving either, but they’re not that far from the house. Whatever the cause, he blurts, “Shit, Cas, if you wanna get me naked all you gotta do is ask.”

Cas’ mouth opens and closes like a landed fish for a second before he frowns and turns away. The rest of the drive is _beyond_ awkward, silent save for the sound of rain pounding against metal and rhythmic swish of the wipers clearing water from the windshield, and yet again, the sensation of _I’ve been here before_ washes over him, even though he knows he hasn’t.

The rain doesn’t let up as they pull down the long gravel driveway to the house and park, and when he turns the car off they both sit there quietly, neither quite ready to make a break for it yet.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Dean starts. “I was outta line—”

“What were you going to ask me earlier, Dean?” Cas says, staring at his hands in his lap.

“Uh, when?” Dean tries to wrack his brain but can’t make heads or tails of anything right now, still stuck on his slutty slip of the tongue from a few minutes ago.

“Before Sam interrupted you.”

A flush burns across his cheeks. “Oh. Um… It was nothing, man, don’t worry about it.” He chuckles, running fingers through his wet hair, but even to his own ears, it sounds artificial.

Suddenly Cas slides over on the bucket seat and there’s a hand on his knee, another turning his chin, green eyes meeting blue and the whole world fucking tilts on its axis as it hits him.

He _knows_ where he’s seen this before.

Not the same, but close enough to make him tremble, and this time it isn’t from cold but from the _heat_ in Cas’ gaze because _holy shit_ it’s setting him on fire from the inside out, his heart beating a wild tattoo against his ribs like it wants to escape.

“Tell me the truth, Dean,” Cas murmurs lowly, voice like fucking velvet and sandpaper all at once, smooth and deep and rough in that familiar, tortuous way that shoots down his spine and all the way to his groin. “ _Please._ Don't hide from me.”

The hand on Dean’s chin moves to cup his cheek. Unconsciously, he tips his head, nuzzling into the man’s large, warm palm, eyes closing to shut out that stare because he can’t, he just can’t say it with Cas looking at him like that.

“I—fuck.” He swallows hard. “I wanted to ask you if-if you’d maybe try with me.” The grip on his knee tightens and his legs fall open a little more against his will like a damn invitation. “I mean, I’m no good at this, man. I don’t know what I’m doin’, and it scares the hell outta me, but… I guess maybe I’m willing to give it a shot if you are, ya know?”

“ _Oh_...”

He cracks his eyes open at the vulnerable, yearning lilt to Cas’ voice, the hitch in his breath, and peers over to see those plush pink lips parting around his name, brilliant blue eyes glittering beneath the rays of moonlight shining through the windows, cheeks rosy around a growing smile and goddamn, in this moment, without a doubt, Castiel is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Then Cas licks his lips, gaze flitting briefly between Dean’s mouth and eyes, and Dean can’t fucking take it anymore. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s pushing Cas back against the seat, climbing into his lap, fisting his hands in the lapels of that stupid beige coat, and capturing the heady moan that escapes Castiel’s mouth with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
> Alcohol as a coping mechnism (briefly)  
> Minor illness (flu)  
> Mild NSFW content (masturbatus interruptus)  
>    
> 
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely friend [Jacklyn_Flynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacklyn_Flynn/pseuds/Jacklyn_Flynn/works), and to CallenoftheNorth for beta'ing this chapter. Y'all are awesome. 
> 
> Sorry for the long wait between updates, but life has been... uh. Well, life. Hope it was worth the wait! (Please don't hate me for the cliffhanger lmao)
> 
> Next - things heat up between Dean and Cas (yes, it's about to get spicy) and their relationship takes a significant turn. Thoughts/theories? Let me know in the comments! Thanks so much for reading. Love y'all!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check end notes for content warnings (potential spoilers).

Rivulets of rainwater drizzling down the windshield cast dancing, speckled shadows across Dean’s smirking face as he opens his mouth and murmurs coyly, “Shit, Cas, if you wanna get me naked all you gotta do is ask.”

His eyes dart so quickly back to the road that Castiel can’t tell if Dean is serious or joking. He has no clue how to respond, and as the conversation lapses and stilted silence grows, that uncertainty has him pulling his coat closer around himself like a flimsy shield. Now feeling for all the world like a bedraggled wet cat, he turns to stare out of the window, unblinking as trees and fields flicker by until his vision blurs.

 _Why am I so awful at this_ , he thinks, picking at the skin around his nails.

 _Honestly, I think you came off the line with a crack in your chassis,_ Naomi replies.

 _Bite me,_ he tells her, knowing full well he should question his damn sanity if he’s holding conversations in his mind.

Of the three Shurley brothers, Michael has always been the smoothest; charismatic, handsome, aloof, arrogant, and perpetually dressed to the nines, he never once failed to get any woman who caught his eye. Gabriel, on the other hand… his unique brand of charm lies in humor, wit, and though he initially comes across as little more than a “sleazy sugar-addicted porn director” (as Balthazar had once aptly put it), the moment anyone sees the heart of gold beneath that snarky, overconfident veneer, they’re done for.

Castiel isn’t the odd one out because he’s gay, but because he’s just _odd_. Awkward and not particularly sociable, preferring quiet mornings in the park, afternoon lunches with friends, or evenings curled up with Claire and an intriguing book to noisy, bustling clubs or extravagant parties. More likely to discuss miscellaneous historical anecdotes or the latest novel he read than celebrity gossip, recent popular movies, or whatever happens to be “trending” on social media. Good-looking, he’s been told, and moderately successful in that he has—well, _had_ —a stable income in an increasingly unstable economy. His friends always insisted he was “a catch”, tried to set him up with their friends, cousins, co-workers, etcetera. But none of those encounters had ever gone beyond casual sex, even the few which garnered more than one date.

At first, he thought it was due to his strangeness that no one took a keen interest in him. But after a while, he began to believe perhaps it was he who was incapable of feeling the sort of deep, all-encompassing, passionate love he’d always read about in novels or heard his friends speak of.... until he met Dean Winchester.

Castiel now knows the second he laid a hand on him, he was lost.

He’s told himself for weeks he’ll do anything to remain by Dean’s side, even if it means keeping these feelings to himself, even if all he’ll ever have is Dean’s friendship. But every so often Dean does or says something to give Castiel a tantalizing sort of hope which he clings to for dear life in spite of the voice in the back of his mind insisting it’s foolish, unreasonable, dangerous. It’s as though he’s suspended at the edge of a cliff and one wrong step will send him plummeting to the bottom, yet he can’t help feeling it’s worth it anyway if with the right step, he’ll spread wings and, free for the first time, fly. Like tonight, when Dean had taken Castiel’s hand beneath the stars, a nervous tremor to his voice, and said, “Since you’re staying here and all… Would you…”

_Would I what?_

For whatever reason, Dean keeps holding back and Castiel can’t bring himself to push. Even if Dean is attracted to him, Castiel wants more than one night of euphoria, because however amazing it may feel in the moment, it wouldn’t be worth ruining what they have now. Thus, despite the urge building within his chest, the vibrating _need_ to do something, _anything_ , to remove the tension in Dean’s posture and bring back the pleasant mood from earlier, he’s frozen in the passenger seat, terrified that he’ll only make things worse. Putting his feelings on the line, if Dean’s question is indeed a joke, would only end in catasrophe and heartbreak. If not… fuck, he could be letting his one chance at happiness slip through his fingers.

His pulse pounds in his ears as Dean yanks the key from the ignition and with a resigned sigh says, “Look, I’m sorry. I was outta line.”

That simple statement breaks the tense silence between them and it’s as if Castiel’s been underwater through the entire ride and has just now breached the surface and taken a desperate lungful of sweet, sweet air for the head-spinning rush of relief that floods through him.

“What were you going to ask me earlier, Dean?” he blurts before he can stop himself.

_I need to know._

Dean’s nose scrunches, face tipping toward the roof of the car like he’s thinking hard. “Uh, when?”

“Before Sam interrupted you.” Restless, Castiel tugs a bit too hard on the skin at the corner of his thumbnail. A drop of blood swells to the surface and he wipes it on his pants, finally risking a glance at Dean. His cheeks are beautifully dark in the scant silver light.

“Oh. Um… It was nothing, man,” Dean says. “Don’t worry about it.”

Just like that, Castiel sees the facade slipping back into place. He wants to rip both of their masks away, tear the walls down that they’ve each spent their entire damn lives building around themselves. Give in to the urges which have plagued him so long, to the way Dean makes him feel inside, show this man just how astounding he is, how loving, beautiful, kind, and brilliant. Make him understand just how much he deserves happiness, peace. But Dean is turning from him again, shutting him out, and he can’t, he can’t, _he can’t_ —

The dam within him bursts.

“Tell me the _truth_ , Dean.” And when did they get so close? When did his hands reach for Dean? He’s not pushing Castiel away, not yet, but his eyes are wide and shining like a deer caught in headlights, brimming with unshed tears. Castiel ponders whether the depth of the affection he feels toward this man will truly be the death of him because it’s welling up, overflowing— _too much, too much_ —his heart surely won’t take it if Dean refuses him now. “Please,” he begs. “Don’t hide from me.”

But Dean’s eyes close as he chokes out, “I—fuck,” and Castiel’s heart begins its steady descent into the earth beneath them because this is it. _It’s all over._ “I wanted to ask you if-if you’d maybe try with me.” He’s ruined it, he’s ruined everything _—Wait, what?_ “I mean, I’m no good at this, man. I don’t know what I’m doin’, and it scares the hell outta me, but… I guess maybe I’m willing to give it a shot if you are, ya know?”

To say Castiel is shocked would be a _massive_ understatement. He’s never been one for surprises, but this—oh, fuck, this is better than that skunky, beautiful kush Rowena gifted him for his nineteenth birthday, better than the greasiest, most artery-clogging burger he’s ever had, better than _sex_. It’s the best feeling in the _world_ and he’s floating on cloud nine for how high and giddy he feels right here, right now, in this ancient car that smells of leather and oil and sweat and Dean’s cheap aftershave while rain pelts a steady drumbeat on the roof above their heads in rhythm to the thundering of his too-full heart.

“Oh, _Dean._ ”

Suddenly time is in flux, everything occurring in slow motion yet happening so fast that he struggles to keep up, has to remind himself just to _breathe_ because Dean positively _launches_ himself at Castiel and suddenly he's got a lapful of squirming, eager six-foot mechanic to contend with. It's nothing like their first “kiss”, if that could really even be counted. Just a thoughtless peck on the cheek, maybe innocuous to Dean though it left Castiel’s skin burning for the remainder of that day as he replayed it over and over in his mind.

No, this is something else entirely.

This is passion and fury, this is electric, this is fireworks exploding, louder and brighter than all those they’d seen earlier that evening, it’s a rainbow after the first spring rain, pure, shimmering and filling him with warm sunshine. It takes a minute for his mind to catch up, but his body’s already taken the lead before he fully realizes what is going on. It’s not a dream, it’s real, Dean kissed him, _is_ kissing him, and oh, it’s everything he’s ever wanted and _so much more._

He chases the sweet wet heat of Dean’s mouth with his own, licking along the seam of lips which taste of bitter hops and the tart, sugary cherry pie Ellen brought to the lake. When those lips finally part to bid him entry, he takes full advantage of his momentum and delves in, possessive and demanding, running his tongue along the tender palate inside, feeling the sharp line of straight teeth, caressing Dean’s tongue with his own. Dean is no more patient than he, fingers still cold from outside running through Castiel’s hair, across his shoulders, down his chest and back again as though he can’t make up his mind what he wants to touch, returning each kiss like a man starved, like Castiel is his favorite flavor and he can't get enough. The rest of the world falls away as they map out each others’ mouths, the texture and shape of them and the perfect way they meld together like a key finding its lock.

Having never heard Dean so unabashed and beautifully himself, he swallows the filthy, delicious sounds Dean makes with delight. Yes, he knows Dean. Knows him intimately, in various other ways. He’s learned a catalog of Dean’s laughter, the little chuckles and chortles, the boisterous guffaws. The way he sings in the shower as though no one can hear, or hums beneath his breath while at the stove, focused, tongue between his teeth. The way he grunts and groans in frustration or pain, sniffles and gripes when he’s sick, huffs and growls in anger, annoyance.

But these sounds? Oh, these are by far his favorite, and he wants nothing more than to memorize each and every one, record them on an album alongside the others to replay in his mind on his darkest days so he’ll know, and believe, that life is worth living, that good things do indeed happen. And his good thing is Dean Winchester.

Finally, the moment comes when his breath has been too long held in his chest, his lungs near to bursting, and he breaks away with a harsh gasp, sucking in lungful after desperate lungful as Dean begins marking a trail down his neck. He mutters Castiel's name between each greedy press of lips, seeking _what_ he doesn't quite know until Dean finds the sensitive place that makes him tremble and gasp at the junction of neck and shoulder and sets to work.

“Is this—is this okay?” Dean asks in a broken voice, one hand buried in Castiel’s hair and the other arm wrapped around his shoulders, holding him close.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he chants, clutching at the cloth covering the other man’s back.

Then Dean tilts his head just right, the moonlight silhouetting the long line of his neck, bared and presented like it’s meant for Castiel’s lips. Laying a string of kisses from the bolt of Dean’s jaw to the point where his pulse beats a rhythm against the skin below his ear, he latches on hungrily, nipping and sucking.

He relishes the scrape of stubble against his lips, the shiver that runs through Dean, the lascivious groan which escapes him when he laves the bruising flesh with his tongue. On autopilot, he bucks into the writhing body in his lap. Dean responds in kind, setting a dirty grind as they both chase the friction they crave. But that voice still nags at the back of his mind, one that reminds him they're moving too fast, that there are things left unspoken and it wouldn't be right to go on without ensuring Dean is of sound mind and this is truly what he wants.

“Dean, maybe we should talk about this,” he says, but it comes out sounding more like a question than a request because the part of him asking is also terrified the answer won't be what he longs to hear.

“No, no, _Cas_ ,” Dean pleads, hand dropping from the death-grip it’s had around his shoulders to fumble at Castiel’s belt. “Waited so long—”

“Dean—hold on.” He catches the other man’s wrists in a tight grip and pulls them away. Dean whines and rocks against Castiel again, eliciting a sharp hiss as a bolt of pleasure shoots through him. “Inside. Let’s-let’s go inside.”

Dean licks a stripe from jaw to ear, flicking the tip of his tongue against the lobe before whispering, “Don’t you want me?”

_Fuck yes._

Castiel groans, deep and low, head flung back on the seat. “You feel that?” He tugs Dean’s hips against his own to prove his point. “More than anything. We… we don’t have to stop, but...”

It’s so hard to concentrate when Dean is mouthing around his collar again, rocking in his lap, fingers working beneath his now untucked shirt to splay across his ribs. He grasps Dean’s face between his palms, finally drawing his attention and holding it as their eyes lock. His lids are heavy, irises a mere ring of color, lips spit-slick and gorgeous. But Castiel wants to see him in all his glory, in the light, he wants room to move and touch and taste that frankly, the front seat of a car, even a roomy one such as Baby, simply cannot provide. Their first time… he doesn’t want it like this, like fumbling teenagers groping through clothing, sloppy hand jobs in the dark. No, it should be… special. That is what Dean deserves.

“But Dean—” Castiel pulls him close, lips tracing Dean’s ear, and rumbles, “I want to make this good for you.”

A shudder runs through Dean and he blinks, amazed. “Whaddaya have in mind?”

“Getting out of these cold, wet clothes, for one.”

Dean grins mischievously. “Hell yeah.”

Minutes later they’re clambering clumsily up the front steps, laughing, shoulders bumping. As they fling the door open and stumble across the threshold, almost tripping over one another, Castiel feels lighter than he ever has before.

He drops his coat on the small bench in the foyer, reaching for Dean’s shoulder so he doesn’t fall over while toeing off his muddy shoes and wet socks and Dean does the same. With a glance behind them, he sees the floor is a wreck and muses that they’ll have a lot of cleaning to do in the morning.

Then Dean shoves Castiel against the wall beside the stairs, a loud grunt escaping him from the sheer force of it, and those concerns disappear into the furthest reaches of his mind. Because what could be more important? He has Dean here, finally, before him in all his gorgeous, flushed and freckled glory. And it’s with that stunning reminder that he uses the strength he’s gained through years of running through his emotional frustration (and the recent months where exercise had taken on a distinctly different feeling and purpose, admittedly, some of it frustration of another type) to flip their positions, pinning Dean with his body, tightly pressed from thigh to chest. Their lips meet, hot and just as desperate as they were in the car. It’s on the verge of too rough, teeth clacking and noses bumping as they each fight to control the kiss until frustrated, Castiel stops.

Crowding Dean against the wall, he grips Dean’s waist with one hand, jaw with the other, and grins when he sees the man’s green eyes widen in surprise and obvious arousal. Filing that information away for later, he angles Dean’s head. Licks along the hem of his lips until they open, eager and wanting, tongues sliding together around their mutual sounds of pleasure. He slots a thigh between Dean’s legs, a shiver vibrating down his spine at the sensation of Dean’s plumping cock upon every sinful roll of his narrow hips. His own responds in kind, beginning to strain uncomfortably in his slacks as Dean pants into his mouth, each breath coming harsher than the last until Castiel forces himself to pull away for air.

“Upstairs,” he growls, releasing Dean and backing away.

Dean gasps, “Shit—wait, wait,” and scrambles from the wall. His hands flutter restlessly at his sides as though he can’t make up his mind what to do with them.

Castiel takes a breath. _Maybe he is reconsidering._ “We don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready for, Dean. It’s alright.”

Dean chuckles nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not that, uh—can you just… wait down here for a few minutes? Please?”

Castiel raises a quizzical brow but concedes, nodding. “Whatever you want.” He steps in closer, delivering a tender, chaste kiss to Dean’s lips before saying, “I’ll go fix us something to drink.”

“Sounds great,” Dean says with a grin that moves fluidly from anxious to excited. “I’ll uh, I’ll be right back.”

Castiel laughs as he watches the taller man take the stairs two at a time.

Turning away, he muses, _this may be for the best_ , as it gives him a chance to catch his breath and _think_. While Dean is doing… whatever it is he’s doing, Castiel stops in the restroom just off the living room to freshen up. He takes the piss he’s been holding since the lake and washes his hands, taking a moment to splash warm water over his face. This is all happening so fast, and surely they should talk about what this means for them, how it might affect their relationship going forward. The last thing he wants is to ruin the best friendship of his life, to lose what they’ve built together here… but this is also everything he’s ever wanted and Dean seems to want it too. Perhaps he’s yearned for this as long as Castiel has.

Screw Michael, Naomi, his father, and everyone who’s told him how to live his life, how to act, how to think. This time Castiel is going to listen to his heart because this?

_This feels right._

Glancing up, he catches sight of his dripping reflection. Scarlet cheeks, lips kiss-swollen, hair standing at end, pupils still dilated with arousal though his erection has decidedly wilted without attention. He reaches for the hand towel hanging beside the sink and dabs at his face and neck, noticing a fresh mark near his collar where Dean’s lips had bitten and sucked at the flesh. He touches it gently with his fingertips, running over each little impression of Dean’s teeth and suppresses a shudder at the heady rush that brings him. To be marked, claimed, as Dean’s. Knowing Dean bears similar such marks. A flare of possessiveness unfurls in his gut, and he can’t help wondering what else Dean would let him do.

Ah, but he should really get to those drinks, first and foremost. Something to settle both their nerves.

Castiel rolls his shoulders within the damp fabric of his shirt where it clings to his chest as he steps into the kitchen, but chooses to ignore it for now since, he laughs bemusedly to himself, he’ll likely be out of it soon if all goes well. He finds no whiskey left in the cabinet, but there is a leftover bottle of high-end tequila Charlie brought two weeks ago during a dinner where she’d roped both Dean and Castiel into attending some event set to take place in early November. Lark-something, maybe?

He shrugs, pouring a fingers' share into two of the glasses he and Dean had bought together.

The memory of that purchase brings a smile to his face. They hadn’t intended to do so, but while perusing aisles for other things for the house, Castiel had thought of Dean’s abundant collection of coffee mugs and eclectic assortment of other hand-me-down, mismatched dishes, and stopped by the kitchenware section. Dean had a particular fondness for the square, black matte ceramic plates with thin strips of blue-green gradient along the edges. Handcrafted, the label declared. Not that Dean had said anything aloud, but Castiel noticed his gaze linger on them, so he grabbed those alongside a set of faux-crystal glasses in varying sizes.

When they got home, Dean had approached him shyly, hiding his hands behind his back, and said he had a surprise. How he hid it from Castiel, he still doesn’t know, but he’d taken the little gift bag with trembling fingers and removed the tissue paper, unveiling… yet another coffee mug. Painted bright yellow and orange in a distinct honeycomb pattern, it bore a smiling little cartoon bumblebee on the front with “Bee Happy” printed below.

“I just thought you should have your own, ya know?” Dean had said.

How could he have not known? In that moment, or all those preceding it, that Dean felt the same longing that rages like an inferno within Castiel? His eyes brim with tears, the brunt of that realization hitting him with full force as he stands alone in the kitchen, lips twitching with a smile.

“Hey.”

Startled, he spins and sees Dean staring sheepishly from the doorway leading to the dining room, hands in the pockets of dark blue flannel bottoms. His hair is wetter than before, disheveled, and he’s also changed shirts. Did he _shower_?

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replies, voice surprisingly steady. He moves across the room, one arm extended with his offering. Dean takes it but eyes the liquid within suspiciously before lifting it to his nose. His eyebrows rise.

“Tequila?”

“Indeed.”

Dean smiles, nervous, but the desire is still there. “Fine with me.”

He gulps it down in one shot, grimacing slightly as the strong agave flavor hits his tongue. Castiel follows, setting his glass on the nearby counter and stepping forward, devouring the empty space. Thirst not yet quenched, he takes the other glass from Dean and places it next to his.

“What now?” he asks.

They stare, and the minute drags on. Dean swallows, eyes flitting down to Castiel’s lips. The pupils grow wide and dark when his tongue slips between them. “We get naked, I hope,” Dean mumbles, still watching his mouth. It grows, becomes a grin.

 _Inevitable_ , he thinks. _Magnetic_. This thing between them, it burns brighter than the sun, pulls them into each other’s orbit time and time again. There’s no escaping it, and neither of them wants to. His lips part.

“I like the sound of that.”

* * *

Making out on stairs is a recipe for disaster, Dean quickly learns.

Lips locked, they’re stumbling like idiots step by step, alternating between Dean being pressed against the wall and Cas being pushed into the railing. Hands claw at clothing—son of a bitch, why are they wearing so many _layers_ —when suddenly there’s nothing but air beneath Dean’s feet and his hands, which still have a stern grip on Castiel’s shirt, bring them down together.

His back slams into the stairs with an “Oomph,” a sharp pain radiating from the points of impact up his spine.

“Are you alright?” Cas says, perched above him. A concerned frown hovers in the corners of his lips. “I’m so sorry—”

Dean bursts into laughter. Like, crazed person, body shaking, can’t get any air into his lungs fucking laughter because really? _Really_? It’s beyond ridiculous, and it should be humiliating because Dean’s always been smooth as fuck, right? But he can’t even bring himself to care since it’s hitting him all at once in a wild rush that he’s just so damn _happy_.

Cas _wants_ him.

Cas wants _him!_

Then Cas crumples on top of him, giggling like a schoolgirl until neither of them can breathe and they’re both panting, tears streaking down flushed faces. He pushes at Cas’ chest, words on the tip of his tongue though he can’t yet speak and the sight that greets him tugs at something beneath his ribs.

Cas’ eyes shine wetly in the fluorescent stair light, the most breathtaking blue Dean has ever seen and the only color he thinks he’ll ever care about for the rest of his life. His cheeks are ruddy, blushing almost crimson and covered in the eight a.m. shadow Dean’s imagined so many times scraping along his inner thighs.

Eyes falling to a red spot right above Castiel’s collar, his arousal flares anew, hot and desperate, and it’s all he can do not to beg the man to fuck him right here, right now against the sharp edges of the stairs.

Shifting awkwardly, pain lances through him again, cutting off that train of thought. “Ugh… I’m gonna regret this in the morning.”

Cas’ smile fades. He traces a slender finger along Dean’s jaw. “Not all of this, I hope.”

“No. Never,” he says with a dopey grin. “Promise, I’m okay.”

“Good.” Cas leans forward, pecking him gently on the lips. “Now can we get to the bedroom?”

“Yeah! Yeah.” Dean chuckles breathlessly.

Standing, Cas lugs him to his feet, and they hold hands the remainder of their journey up the stairs, but once they reach the bedroom Cas’ smile turns bashful. So maybe they’ve lost some of their steam, and it’s no longer wild and rough like before. But this moment is no less magical with Cas’ face tinted pink and uncertain, hand still clutching Dean’s fingers like he’s terrified that if he lets go Dean will disappear.

Dean’s not about to let anything, not even his own self-doubt, ruin this. Not now, not when he feels like he’s been waiting his entire life for this moment, and not just ‘cause they might have sex. Like, yeah, okay that’s definitely part of it. But… shit, it’s so much more than that.

He’s overwhelmed, _consumed_ , by Castiel. All of him, every bit. The small smiles only meant for Dean. The way Cas rambles when he’s actually passionate about something, the contentment on his face when they sit and watch crappy TV together, how his eyes gleam in the low lamplight as they settle in for bed, or the bleary, squinty frown he gives Dean when he first wakes.

Just… everything.

He loves— _fuck,_ he _loves_ him. So damn much.

Pulling on the hand still holding his, he reels Cas into his arms and cups his cheek. When their lips meet this time, it’s almost delicate, letting the passion build slow and easy. _It’s nice_ , he thinks, familiar and whisper-soft, mouths brushing once, twice, then again—but he’s pent up, has been for so long, practically _aching_ for it and he craves _more_. Dean’s teeth scrape over the plump flesh of Cas’ lower lip, nipping and teasing, coaxing a whimper that he swallows readily.

Cas’ hands rise to his waist, tugging him closer as his palm slides into fluffy, dark hair, their kisses deepening in intensity and finally, _finally_ , he finds himself slowly moving backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed. He smiles triumphantly into Cas’ skin, mouths at the bolt of his stubbled jaw, down his throat, and when he’s met not with skin but a starched collar, he lets out a noise of frustration.

“Off,” he grunts, hands moving down to fumble with the buttons. Cas chuckles but abides, leaning back just far enough to assist till Dean can shove it from his shoulders. It pools on the floor at their feet where he hopes the rest of their clothes will soon join.

“Bossy,” Cas says, amused.

“You like it.”

Cas grins roguishly against Dean’s lips. “I do.”

Dean reaches behind himself with one arm and yanks his own shirt over his head before sitting on the bed, scooting to lay back on the pillows. He tries his damndest to give his most sultry _come-hither_ look (which works fucking wonders if the matching smolder in Cas’ eyes as he climbs up to follow is any indication).

Cas slides perfectly between legs spread in invitation and the moment his weight settles atop Dean’s body it’s as though the stars have aligned for how perfectly they fit together. Cas’ forearms rest on either side of Dean’s head and they trade leisurely kisses, content for now to enjoy the feeling of skin on skin, tongue against tongue, the drag of their stubble meeting, rutting lazily pelvis to pelvis.

Then Cas shifts just slightly, their rapidly growing erections meet, and Dean groans into Cas’ mouth, hands sliding across his smooth back down to his round, tight ass to further guide their movements. Cas breaks away with a gasp, kissing down the length of Dean’s jaw and neck to suck another mark on his collarbone.

“ _Cas_ ,” he pleads, rolling his hips.

The other man looks up, eyes hooded and dark with lust, and sweeps the back of his fingers softly across Dean’s cheek. “I’ve got you,” he whispers huskily.

Without breaking their gaze, Cas slides down until his mouth hovers tantalizingly above Dean’s left nipple, just below the tattoo he and his brother share over their hearts. His long, pink tongue dips down, flicking at the nub until it hardens. Teasing, too gentle, the delicacy flickering an ember to life within him he’s scared to acknowledge.

Dean’s already revealed so much tonight—if Cas keeps this up, he’ll fall apart.

He reaches for Cas’ hair. Urges him closer, and Cas gets the memo, thank fuck. He smiles against Dean’s skin, then his lips fold around the sensitive flesh and _suck_. Dean whines high in his throat, spine curving.

Cas comes free with a slick _pop_ and murmurs, “Lovely.”

A flush blossoms across Dean’s cheeks. No one’s ever treated him with such gentle care and attention, or such fire and intensity. The juxtaposition of Cas’ affections leave him lightheaded and weak yet it’s not enough, he wants more. _Needs_ more.

“Cas, c’mon.” He emphasizes his haste with a thrust against Cas’ body and bites his lower lip with the little bit of friction it gives. But all the infuriating asshole does is lean toward his other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention until Dean’s positively writhing.

“Tell me what you want, Dean,” Cas says, breath coming out hot yet cooling quickly on the saliva he’s left on Dean’s skin. Cas doesn't wait for a response, however, working his way down Dean's ribs and abdomen, sucking new hickeys like he's hell-bent on mapping the landscape of his body and staking his territory.

Act now, talk later; that’s what Dean’s good at. He knows what he wants, what he hurriedly prepared himself for barely what, twenty minutes ago? Time is an illusion at this point.

But words have never been his fuckin’ forte and all he can think to say is, “Fuck me,” all breathy and humiliatingly desperate. He’d be ashamed if not for the instant flash in Cas’ eyes that tells him maybe he said exactly the right damn thing.

“Do you have—” Cas looks like he’s embarrassed just to ask, and in any other situation Dean probably would be to answer but right now all he cares about is getting Cas’ dick in his ass, _pronto_. Wordlessly, he flails an arm toward the nightstand on his side of the bed and Cas leans up across his body to open it and fish around. He feels the guy freeze.

“What?”

Cas clears his throat, and Dean realizes, shit. He’s got a vibrator in there, one he used like, a week ago during a rare moment when Cas was out of the house and he was home alone.

“That, uh—”

Smirking, Cas turns to him, holding Dean’s half-empty tube of Astroglide and a condom. He shakes the bottle, one eyebrow cocked, and tilts his head toward the drawer. “I see you’ve been keeping busy.”

Dean snorts, dragging a hand over his red face to hide from that knowing gaze. “You have no idea. I haven’t jerked off this much since high school.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I mean”—he waves vaguely at Cas’ body—“look at you, dude. Fucking sex on legs.”

Cas ducks his head, looking at himself with a little frown, and _Jesus, seriously?_ Does the guy not realize how gorgeous he is? Whoever gave Cas the impression that he’s not a bona fide sex-God better not meet Dean in a dark alley in the future. When Cas looks up again, his expression is a weird cross between curious and smug.

Setting the lube and condom beside them atop the duvet (which is undoubtedly about to get _wrecked_ ), Cas straddles Dean’s hips. Hovers over him and asks, “Do you think about me? When you use it?”

Dean wants to look away but finds he can’t, pinned here by both Cas’ body and the wild intensity of his eyes. He almost laughs, because _holy shit_ if Cas only knew about the dildo in the bathroom, too. The words die on his tongue though and all he can do is nod.

Cas’ eyes flutter closed for a second, a small moan breaking free from his lips as though he’s imagining it. “God, Dean, that’s so unbelievably sexy.”

“Did you ever, uh, you know.” Dean pauses, letting out a flustered laugh. “Think about me?” Is it even healthy to blush this much? He’s gonna turn into a goddamn tomato at this rate.

Cas looks at him like he’s just asked the stupidest question and for a moment Dean’s actually kinda worried he’s gonna say no. Instead he drops to his elbows, bringing their faces so close the heat of his breath feathers across Dean’s lips. He arches up, but Cas doesn’t meet him halfway.

“Every time since I met you,” Cas says.

“Yeah?” Dean grins. _Awesome._ And the images that spring to his mind just make him hornier than ever.

Cas hums and gives a short nod. “If you’re open to it, perhaps we could have some fun with that next time.”

_Next time? Next time… as in, he wants to do this again. More than once. Possibly a lot. Hopefully forever._

“Hell yeah,” Dean says eagerly.

Cas kisses him lightly, then whispers into his ear, “On you… or me. Whichever you prefer.”

 _Fuuuuuck._ Just the thought of getting to tease Cas with his toys before sliding home into his tight heat makes his dick twitch in—why the fuck is he still wearing pants? _Time to get this show on the road,_ he thinks, hooking his thumbs into his waistband until Cas stops him with hands on his wrists.

“Allow me. Please.”

Dean grins excitedly and crosses his arms behind his head, watching Cas shuffle down the bed to sit back on his haunches. His fingertips slide between Dean’s pants and skin before slowly shimmying them down, and Dean lifts his hips to let Cas pull them over his ass. As his hard cock bobs free, flushed red and weeping, Cas licks his lips, eyes glued to it where it lies upon Dean’s slightly soft but flat stomach.

“Just gorgeous,” Cas mumbles, hands stroking Dean’s thighs for a moment like he’s lost in thought before he comes back to himself and tugs the pants over Dean’s feet, tossing them across the room.

“Your turn?” Dean says, hopeful eyes flitting to Cas’ obviously tented slacks.

Cas gets the message and shuffles off the foot of the bed. Without breaking eye contact, slender fingers pop the button of his slacks, whip the belt from their loops, and slide the zipper ever so slowly downward. As he undulates his hips to let them fall to the floor, Dean’s dick twitches in his peripheral.

He licks his lips, letting a hand work down to surround himself, just a taste. A tease. He thickens further in his palm, a tingle reverberating through the base of his spine.

Then Cas drops his boxers and Dean can’t help himself, _watching isn’t enough_.

Bolting upright, he crawls on hands and knees to the edge of the bed, mouth watering at the sight of the most magnificent cock he’s ever seen. About as long as his, though thicker, flushed purple beneath his tanned skin and surrounded by neatly trimmed curls. The head glistens with Cas’ arousal, and it’s all Dean can do to keep himself from whining like a damn bitch just to get his lips around it _right fucking now._

At the last moment, he stops himself because even turned on as he is, “safety first” and all that jazz. “You, ah—” He clears his throat, barely managing to tear his eyes away from his waiting prize. Not really a way to ask this that isn’t blunt, so might as well just spit it out. “You clean?”

“Yes.” Cas blushes instantly, eyes darting to the floor. “I… I haven’t been with anyone in a long time. But I got tested after my last, um, partner.”

“Seriously?” Dean raises a brow. “What’s a ‘long time’?” Cas looks at him, gaze sharp and a little defensive, and Dean puts his hands up. “Hey, not judging.”

“Maybe a year?” Cas lets out a resigned little laugh. “Or longer. I don’t exactly keep count.”

A curse almost slips free but Dean reigns it in, not wanting to embarrass Cas any more than he already has. Besides, it’s not like Dean’s been getting any. Over the last few years casual, meaningless sex with strangers had gradually lost its appeal and those encounters grew fewer and farther between. He’d almost stopped making the effort to pick people up altogether, only going for it if someone hit on him first and he happened to be in the mood.

Since he met Cas, though...

“Me too. It’s been a while, I mean. Not that long but…” He sighs, rubbing at his neck. Cas has been nothing but honest with him so far, he might as well return the favor. He owes the guy that much, for all he’s done for him. “Haven’t wanted anyone else since I met you.”

Cas startles. “Really?”

Dean nods, and Cas fucking _beams_ , all gummy and beautiful, eyes crinkling, nose scrunched. Nobody but Cas could go from sexy to adorable, zero to sixty, in a second flat. _Goddamn, I am so gone on this guy._

Swinging his legs to the floor, he sits at the edge of the mattress with his feet firmly planted on the wood below, reaching up with cautious hands to Cas’ hips. He pulls Cas between his spread knees and asks, “This okay?”

Eyes wide and jaw falling slack, Cas answers, “Y-yes,” his voice suddenly hoarse.

Dean nuzzles the crease of Cas’ thigh, inhaling the heady scent of him. Crisp, clean, yet earthy and musky in a way that burrows into his memory, making a permanent home. He wants to wrap himself in it like a fucking _blanket_.

Cas sucks in a pointed breath as Dean mouths a path toward his goal. Bringing a hand up to cup and roll Cas’ balls, he presses a sweet kiss to the base of his cock. But it’s not enough to touch, he wants to taste, _consume_ Cas the way Cas’ mere presence consumes him.

He licks a broad stripe along Cas’ length, the salt of his skin washing over his tongue, enticing and delicious. Wrapping a hand around the base, his tongue flicks out, caressing the sensitive spot underneath the head, the same on his own that that drives him crazy. He alternates between flattening it, circling and slicking Cas up to teasing little kitten licks before his lips finally envelope Cas’ velvet-smooth cock.

He pauses a moment, kinda nervous because shit, it’s been a long ass minute since he’s done this, but God does he _want_. Eyes falling closed, he suckles at the tip, letting his hand catch his saliva as it dribbles down the shaft to smooth each stroke. It’s messy, flawless, and his own lust brims, tightens in his groin. He’s aching for touch, release, but all he cares about right now is _Cas_. Making Cas feel _good_.

The longer he works Cas into a mumbling, groaning mess the more relaxed he feels, to the point where he’s almost drunk on it. His mind becomes hazy, body light with the thrill of it all, months of longing bleeding into each _lick, stroke, suck_. When fingers card affectionately through his hair he looks up from beneath his lashes, takes Cas down as far as he can go without choking and moans, the sound vibrating through Cas’ thick girth.

He gags a little anyway, spit running down his chin. Pulls back with a cough and watering eyes. _Fuck_. Yeah, he's way outta practice, but Cas is heavy and bitter on his tongue, and the subtle tremor of Cas' thighs, his hands where they linger on Dean's shoulders, all of it makes him yearn to take the man apart piece by blessed piece.

So he sinks down again, and again, lets muscle memory take over where the mental one's deficient and finds his rhythm as the increasing ache in his jaw and the unabashed, pitiful noises Cas is making wash over him. He could do this all day. Every day. Would gladly, just for Cas.

“Oh! _Oooh_ , f-fuck,” Cas stammers, eyes rolling back into his head, and if Dean’s mouth weren’t completely full right now he’d grin because _hell yeah_. That's what he was goin' for.

Hollowing his cheeks, he slides back up to the tip, sucking like his life depends on it until Cas’ hips jerk, a sign that Dean is finally cracking through his controlled veneer. He knows what'll really break him though (shit, been there, done that), and raises his hands to Cas’ ass in a wordless request.

“Are… are you sure?” Cas pants above him, eyes glazed over, mouth hanging open. Christ, he already looks fuckin’ _debauched._ A swell of pride fills Dean’s chest because he did that, _he_ put that look on Castiel’s face.

Pulling off with a wet sound he murmurs, “Yeah, ’m sure,” voice husky and low. “C’mon sweetheart.” He urges Cas forward again, mouth open, ready. 

“Dean, you—you’re so—” but the rest of his words are lost to a guttural moan when Dean swallows him down again, relaxing his throat and taking him in until his nose is nearly nestled in the coarse, dark hair at the base.

Cas thrusts shallowly at first, his hand still tentative in Dean’s hair but when he draws the other man forward Cas gets with the program, tightens his grip, and increases the pace and depth. He’s still careful, mindful of Dean, pausing every few thrusts to allow him a breath despite his clearly fraying control.

Giving in to the same need, Dean finally touches his own neglected cock. It's heavy in his hand, throbs against the heated flesh of his palm. Warmth spreads through his gut, the muscles of his abdomen and thighs clenching as he smears a glob of precome around the head and strokes in long, slow pulls. He glances up to see Cas’ head thrown back, the strong, solid body under it tense as he struggles to maintain a modicum of composure.

Beautiful, seeing him lose it like this. No barriers left between them.

Then Cas’ chin tips forward as if he sensed Dean watching and, holding his gaze, the hand clutching at Dean’s shoulder for purchase comes down to touch his jaw. He shifts, thumbing across the bulge in Dean’s cheek and, looking at him like he hung the fucking moon, purrs, “ _Perfect_.”

His face warms and eyes prickle. Vision blurring, he blinks back tears. He struggles against the sensation, lungs tight, and breathes in through his nose as best he can. _Relax. It’s just sex; this is my zone. I got this._

But Cas tugs him back by the hair, his cock bobbing free, slippery-wet and pulsing inches from Dean’s swollen lips. A whimper slips out against his will, but he doesn’t get a chance to complain or beg for more (God, when did he get so fucking needy?) because within seconds Cas is pushing at his shoulder and climbing onto his lap, their overheated bodies finally meeting with the full, glorious skin-to-skin contact Dean’s been dreaming of for what feels like a lifetime now.

He wraps one hand around the back of Cas’ thigh to steady him, the other drifting to the nape of his neck and pulling in a silent plea for his lips.

“Dean,” Cas says, voice low, and their eyes meet.

Quivering under the weight of that gaze, something tells him this is more, _so much_ more, and he’s actually afraid for a second he's gonna vibrate right outta his skin, flayed open, bared to Cas, and vulnerable in a way he’s never been before. His eyes fill again with tears, lips tremble with the need to speak, to tell this man just how he craves, how he wants, how he _loves_.

The words fail him, dancing on the edge of his tongue where he shoves it hard behind his teeth, jaw cinched shut, because he doesn’t even know where to friggin’ start or if he’s ready to take that step.

Instead he begs, _Please, please, please,_ with his eyes—what he’s even askin’ for he barely knows—yet somehow Cas meets them with surety. Says nothing for a long minute, communicating solely through their shared gaze that Cas will take care of him, that he’s here to _stay_. And Dean, shit... he believes him.

He lets go.

* * *

Dean swallows thickly, voice breaking on a hushed, “Cas, I...”

Castiel watches the moment of his surrender, the relaxation of his taut musculature, the serenity that overtakes his expression, and it is _sublime_. He’s never seen him so exposed, so unrestrained. It’s hard for Dean to let go like this, he knows. He knows and doesn’t take it for granted. The trust Dean is handing over, this _gift_ , it brings tears to Castiel’s eyes and takes every ounce of his unraveling control to hold them at bay.

 _Beautiful_ , he thinks, probably for the millionth time. And he’ll repeat it as often as required if only to convince Dean of its truth.

His thumb strokes at the hinge of Dean’s jaw in what he hopes is a tender, comforting gesture, though whether for Dean or himself he isn’t sure. But he says, “It’s alright, Dean,” tone assured, watching forest eyes shimmer with waves of emotion. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Okay,” Dean whispers, lying back on the pillows for the second time that night. He pushes the bottle into Castiel’s hand. “Okay... I’m ready.”

Knelt between Dean’s bowed legs, he drinks his fill of the view. Broad, strong shoulders. Golden skin lightly dusted with freckles and thin, soft blond hair. Shapely pectorals and pert, pink nipples, the flavor of which still linger on Castiel’s tongue. The slight softness of his stomach and flushed, perfect cock lying straight atop it, twitching with need, begging for touch.

He pops the cap on the tube, relishing the shiver that crawls across the sea of skin before him at the sound, and pours a generous amount into his hand, warming it between his fingers.

“Hold this,” he orders, pushing one of Dean’s legs up and guiding the other man’s hand. Dean obeys admirably, hooking his hands under both thighs and presenting himself. Castiel holds his breath, just for a moment, needing it to clear his head, then lies on his belly and gets comfortable.

He can smell the clean, spicy aroma of Dean’s soap blending with the salty tang and numerous other scents natural to the man. The leather and oil and wood that forever embeds itself in him and lingers upon everything he touches. Their sheets, Dean’s car. Everywhere Castiel goes now, he smells Dean, but this is the first time he’s ever had the privilege to get _this_ close and with that knowledge, he inhales deeply, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s thigh. The ghosting of lips and tongue follow that first touch, a silent plea to his lover to _let me in._ Dean sucks in a breath, body trembling as Castiel pries his cheeks apart with one hand and circles his thumb around his tight, pink rim. He teases slowly, gently, slipping just the tip in then sliding out and circling again, massaging the muscle into pliancy.

“D-don’t gotta… I ain’t fragile, Cas,” Dean insists. Cas nips the soft flesh of his inner thigh, which earns him a yelp. Chuckling at that, he glances up to find Dean scowling at him between his legs. “You fucker.”

“You like it,” he says, repeating Dean’s own words back to him.

“I’d like it a lot more if you’d hurry up and fuck me.”

“So impatient,” he clucks, chastising fondly.

“Yeah well, feels like ya been teasing me all damn night.”

He concedes, sliding his index finger inside, down to the knuckle. Dean’s blush deepens when he raises an eyebrow. “Dean,” he says, tone low and thick because he meets less resistance than expected, “did you prepare yourself for me?”

Dean doesn’t reply, so Castiel pushes in deeper, crooks his finger toward the ceiling and immediately finds what he’s looking for. Dean shouts, arching off the bed, and Castiel has to pin him down by the hip with his free hand to keep his finger from slipping free. So eager, so _responsive_. He feels his own cock drip between his legs and rocks down, seeking blessed friction.

“Yeah,” Dean sobs, muscles quaking. “Just… just a little. I thought… fuck!”

Castiel groans. _God, that’s so fucking hot._ He holds his tongue, however.

He relaxes the pressure, giving Dean some relief before adding a second finger, but makes sure to avoid his prostate for now. He’s not opposed to teasing, but he isn’t cruel either. They’re both close already, having dangled on the brink for so long now. Hours, perhaps. He doesn’t even know the time, it seems to have lost all meaning tonight with how consumed he is by Dean, by being with him this way, finally having the opportunity to touch him like this.

To _love_ him.

“You thought what, Dean,” he says, heated breath whispering across Dean’s fluttering hole as he thrusts his fingers. Dean shudders, gooseflesh blossoming across the naked expanse before him.

“I h-hoped… wanted this, wanted you. So… s-so bad.”

And that’s it—Castiel can’t take it—he needs to see Dean, needs to feel and kiss and touch and then he’s hovering above the trembling man, still pumping his fingers as he claims his mouth, rough and demanding. The taste of him sings across his tongue as it plunges into Dean’s pliant mouth, imitating the motion between his legs. Dean keens wantonly against his lips, rocking back down on Castiel’s hand so he lowers himself down to an elbow, bringing them chest to chest, soothing Dean with his comforting weight. He adds yet another finger, and only then does he curl them upward again. Dean’s cock smears precome between their stomachs as he strokes the man into a weeping frenzy, thighs twitching against Castiel’s sides where Dean had released them when he could no longer maintain that position.

“Please, please, _Cas_ ,” Dean begs, “fuck, _n-need you._..”

“Shh,” he soothes, caressing the man’s jaw with his nose. “I’ve got you.” He sits back on his heels, withdrawing his hand despite the desperate whine Dean emits. “How do you want me, Dean?”

Dean’s eyes are glossy and unseeing, dreamlike. It takes a moment before he’s able to focus on Castiel, to compose himself enough to slur, “Help me up? Can’t…” he trails off with an exhausted little laugh.

Disappointment floods through him, as he wants to see, wants to look into Dean’s eyes as he makes love to him. But he shoves the feeling aside, buries it for now. Instead guides Dean up, helps him shift to his knees where he immediately turns around and faceplants into his pillows, ass in the air. Castiel drags his lower lip between his teeth. Perhaps not what he’d intended, but God, it’s still a beautiful sight.

He fumbles with the condom, rolls it over his straining dick, and groans from the touch. Takes a deep, steadying breath. Dean glances over his shoulder, lips forming a pout for some reason as he takes in the scene, but then he smacks Castiel in the thigh.

“Now, man, ‘fore I pass the fuck out.”

Castiel chuckles. _Definitely bossy._ Running a hand along the length of Dean’s flank, he lubes himself up with the other and settles behind him, holding the base of his cock and letting the head catch and tease at Dean’s rim. Castiel eases carefully inside in one slow, smooth motion, keeping a firm grip on his hip to prevent him from pushing back just yet and fuck, _oooh fuck_ when he finally bottoms out, pelvis flush against Dean’s supple ass, he freezes, gnawing the soft inner flesh of his cheek, eyes squeezed shut to keep his composure. Dean is so tight around him, inner walls slick and hot and pulsing, _it feels like coming home_ and it’s all he can do not to pound him into the mattress—

As though reading his mind, Dean looks over his shoulder again, says, “Ain’t gonna hurt me Cas,” and bites his lip. Then he bucks back and _clenches_ on purpose. “Fuck. Me.”

Castiel hisses, glaring at the rebellious ass he’s currently balls deep in. _If that’s how Dean wants it._..

He pulls out ever so slowly, watching the point where their bodies meet until only the tip remains inside. Then snaps his hips forward, sharp and quick, grunting at the change in pressure and depth and the shout that erupts from Dean washes over him like a caress.

The hand on Dean’s hip finds its way to his hair, grasping the strands at the top where they’re longest. “Like this?” he growls, tugging Dean’s head back and forcing his spine into an exquisite arch.

“Yeah,” Dean groans. “Faster.”

And that’s all he needs to know.

The world becomes a blur of pleasure and harsh breaths as he plunges into that delicious heat, controlling his thrusts with firm grips on the man’s hair and hip. His own hair mats to his forehead and neck, sweat dripping down his brow into lust-hooded eyes and he wipes it away with the back of his forearm, fucking like it’s the end of the world, like tomorrow doesn’t exist, like all there is is this blessed moment. He’s determined to wring every last drop from it if it’s the last goddamn thing he ever does, because they have already come this far and the future brings uncertainty but the here and now? Pure bliss.

Dean responds magnificently, not putty in his palms as he was earlier but demanding in return, slamming back against Castiel. “Right there _—_ ” His hands flail behind him until finding their goal, and, groping the back of Castiel’s thighs, pull him even deeper. “ _Right there,_ babe,” he says, “yeah, _yeah—_ ”

They’re carnal, the sounds they make; sweet and filthy. The rough, wet slap of skin echoes through the room above words half-mumbled and unintelligible grunts. He doesn’t know what crosses his mind, what comes over him that spurs it but the hand clutching a narrow hip bone rises, falls with an abrupt, resounding thwack against plump flesh.

Castiel’s eyes widen. Through gritted teeth he rasps, “ _Ah!_ Dean,” the shock of it hitting his brain seconds after his palm did Dean’s ass but— _oh,_ he hears _again, please, again,_ muffled into the rumpled navy duvet between each frantic half-breath. So he does; stinging hands meet reddening flesh, once, twice, thrice more, alternating sides and massaging the tight muscles with his fingers after each swat. He stretches them apart, thumbs dipped into the cleft between, mesmerized by the sight of his cock sinking inside Dean’s shaking body over and over again. The digits slide further, grazing the pink, puffy border where they’re joined and Dean keens, bucks _hard_.

“ _Dean_ , oh God, g-gonna—” he chokes out. His rhythm begins to falter. Close, too close, the coil in his groin a bowstring pulled taut and so, so ready to snap. “Touch yourself.” Dean obeys, arm jerking beneath them and he wishes he could _see_ but he’s too far gone. He drapes himself across Dean’s sweaty back, mouths at the knobs of his spine, kisses and sucks every inch of skin within his reach. “C’mon baby, like that, _come for me_.” Harsh and claiming, he bites at the junction of Dean’s neck and shoulder, all teeth and tongue and _mine_ _mine mine._

“Yes, yes, _Cas_ , oh _fuuck—_ ” Dean shudders as he comes into his own fist, Castiel’s name on his lips like a prayer. His inner walls clamp around his cock and it’s hot, and so tight _, too much_ and _God—_

One arm wraps under Dean’s arm and around his chest, the other tilts his jaw because Castiel _wants_ , he wants to _taste_ , wants _all of Dean_ , anything and everything he’ll give. His thrusts are shallower now, frenzied as he clings desperately to the body underneath his. Their mouths meet, awkward and messy and perfect, and it’s all he needs to topple over that cliff, his cock pulsing within Dean, hips stuttering as he rides those final waves.

With one last gasp he slips free, smoothing a comforting hand down Dean’s arm when he whimpers from the loss. They collapse together, side by side, breathing hard with limbs thrown akimbo.

“Holy,” Dean pants, “ _shit_.”

It takes a long moment to sink in. They look at each other, sated and speechless, taking stock of their mutually blissful expressions. All blown pupils and swollen mouths, hair drenched and disheveled. Then burst into giggles.

Castiel can hardly stand it; he wheezes, whacks the back of a hand stupidly at Dean’s chest, and laughs until his lungs burn and hot tears streak down his cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” Dean soothes, one hand gripping Castiel’s nape and the other cupping his face. The pad of a thumb brushes his cheekbone. “You okay?”

Leaning into the touch, he murmurs lowly, “I’m fine, just—” He collapses limply onto his back with a grunt, an arm flung over his eyes. “I need a nap.”

“You’re tellin’ me.” Dean laughs again, then lies with him, their shoulders rubbing.

Castiel makes a quiet, contented noise in his throat, appreciative of the contact. But his sweat is cooling upon his skin, sticky, and his cock has gone limp. With a sigh, he strips the condom and ties it off, throwing it somewhere over the side of the bed. Hopefully it lands in the little trash can there. _If not, oh well. It’s tomorrow’s problem now_ , he muses, reminded of the mud they’d left in the foyer.

A silent minute passes. Something twists within him, a flicker of uncertainty. “Was…” He hesitates, glancing at Dean. “Was that alright?” Sure, he’s never had complaints from past partners, but this… this is different. It means more. _Dean_ means more.

Dean’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “Was it— _dude._ Dunno about you, but I’m pretty sure you’ve ruined me for other people.”

The skin beneath Dean’s freckles flushes prettily from his admission. Castiel’s stomach flutters and heart swells. Leaning up on an elbow, Castiel arches down to capture his lips in a soft kiss, pours the words lying on the tip of his tongue into the warm, sweet cavern of Dean’s mouth, hoping that delicate touch alone can express all he feels.

 _I love you,_ it conveys, _above all else in the world._

He will never forget the fondness on Dean’s face as they part or the knowledge that he placed it there.

“Ugh,” Dean interrupts, eyes flitting away. He wiggles uncomfortably, lets out an embarrassed huff. “Think I’m layin’ in my own spunk.”

Castiel chuckles and pulls away. “I’ll be back. Stay put.”

“Pfft, I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Can’t feel my damn legs,” Dean replies, haughty but exhausted. He rolls onto his stomach, filling the empty, warm space Castiel’s left behind and stretches like a big, satisfied cat.

Grinning indulgently and shaking his head, Castiel stumbles his way into the bathroom. He rushes through the motions, eager to return to his lover’s arms. Pisses quickly then cleans himself at the sink, sloppy and tired, splashing water all over the counter. After filling a small cup, he chugs it in one go, moaning as the cool, relieving liquid soothes his parched throat. He then wets a rag and refills the cup, carrying it back to Dean and thrusting it into his face.

“Drink.”

Dean takes it gratefully, not even bothering to argue as groggy as he looks now with those few minutes of rest. He lets Castiel clean him with gentle strokes of the cloth, though he does jolt at the shock of cold when it touches his oversensitive skin. Castiel is especially careful of those places, slow and calm.

He fetches a clean blanket from the closet, then tugs the ruined one out from beneath Dean despite his grunts of complaint. Finished with the water, Dean sets the cup on the nightstand and pats the bed next to him.

“C’mere,” he mumbles.

Castiel accepts, flicking off the lamp and sliding into bed. Dean hauls the blanket up over them both, lying back with an arm looped behind his neck. His eyes close, and the slight upturn of his lips, the smoothness to his features, say happy, _content_. However, Castiel remains propped on an elbow, hesitant now. They’ve done this so many times, but never… never after… would it be welcome? Has this changed things?

Dean cracks an eye open. “You waitin’ for an invitation?”

 _Yes._ “I… um—” is what he manages to stutter.

Dean grabs Castiel’s arm and loops it over his waist. A smile spreads across his face as he settles in, cheek nuzzling the fine hairs of Dean’s chest. Tangled together from head to toe, Dean links their fingers and hums, pleased, the vibration rumbling through their hands. Castiel feels the comforting rise and fall of his breath, listens to the steady thrum beating beneath his ear with warmth in his heart and possibility in his mind. He cuddles in close, letting out a hushed, “Goodnight, Dean,” and it’s not long before Dean’s breathing evens out, the first gentle, adorable snores sneaking free.

Only one other thing could sweeten this moment, but he doesn’t know yet if that’s welcome, if Dean shares the depth of his feelings, what this means for them going forward. How will Dean react when he wakes, when he realizes that he’s all but bared his soul to Castiel’s gaze?

He tilts his head. Watches the eyelashes dusting Dean’s skin, the subtle shadows carved beneath his cheekbones, remembers the look in his eyes as he’d _succumbed_. Glorious perfection, that’s what he sees— _still beautiful, still Dean Winchester_ —not a different man, no, the same one he's always cherished. His feelings have not changed but rather grown exponentially, he _knows_ beyond a shadow of a doubt he’s never loved anyone in his life more than this man, and he’s prepared to do everything in his power to show him even if he can’t yet bring himself to say the words.

The two of them, here and now, skin to precious skin, with the blissful promise of tomorrow lying in wait… for now, this is enough. But the longing remains, stubborn and unyielding, and the very second Castiel thinks Dean is completely lost to the world of dreams—only then does he allow himself to acknowledge them aloud—low and soft, to the damp skin at the hollow of Dean’s throat. That’s where he presses one final kiss, and that’s when he whispers them, safe and secret between himself and the moonlight streaming through the curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
> Explicit NSFW Content  
> Blow Jobs  
> Facefucking (not rough)  
> Anal sex  
> Light spanking & hair pulling   
> 
> 
> The art for this chapter was created by my brilliant, kick-ass friend [Scouty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schoute/pseuds/Schoute/works), and I can't aptly express how thankful I am to her for bringing my vision of this scene to life. Check out more of her work [here](https://schoute.tumblr.com)!
> 
> To my betas this chapter: my friend Sav, of course, who never turns down a chance to read my smut and has been my number one cheerleader for nearly a year now. And [MonsterShow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterShow/profile) from the ProfoundBond Discord, who had no qualms in pointing out areas that needed improvement and gave me insight into the reader's POV. Thank you. I'm a better writer for it. 
> 
> Of course I can't leave out my undying gratitude to [dothraki_shieldmaiden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden/works) for putting up with my pathetic daily "I'm a terrible writer" bullshit. Dunno what I'd do without ya.
> 
> I hadn't planned for this to be the end for our boys but at the very least, they've made a big step both in talking about their feelings and expressing them. Who knows, maybe their journey will continue one day, but for now... I just want to thank everyone who followed this far. I appreciate you endlessly.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to receive updates for this or my other works, hit that [subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/profile) button.
> 
> Want to talk with me about Destiel, SPN, or writing? Find me on [Tumblr](https://kmauspn.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kittimau1). 💙💚


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